


Disturbia

by Cuppa_Char



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Bullying, Depressed Stiles, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s03e03 Fireflies, Episode: s03e06 Motel California, Harassment, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sex Tape, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Sexual Manipulation, Stalking, Violence, a kate argent-type of wrong, bloody attack, gone viral, omc relationship is a red-herring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/pseuds/Cuppa_Char
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is seduced by someone older, someone in a position of authority. Someone, who not only Beacon Hills, but the Sheriff himself, trusts. If that's not enough, it's becoming clear that he's also dealing with a possible stalker. Out of everyone it stands to reason it would be his most recent ill-fated lover, right? <i>Right?</i></p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I thought I was saving her. I thought he wouldn’t hurt her. But he did it anyway.” </i></p><p> </p><p>(Ch. 6 AKA: the homage to S2's 'Fury' you didn't ask for. This is actually what I kind of wanted to happen with Matt, but seeing as he's dead already, we're substituting him for Greenberg instead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. n. di-sturb-i-a

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Adult themes, sexual and emotional manipulation, statutory rape, stalking, murder, attempted murder, bloody attack and massacre (kind of).
> 
> I originally posted this chapter up on ff.net back at the start of the year. I've tidied it up a little and will put the second chapter up shortly. There will probably be one more chapter to come after that.
> 
> A/N: Set post S2, with some parallels with S3. Jackson never left, Boyd and Erica came back (purely because I started writing this before knowing anything different and it would be a bitch to change things now) so slightly AU-ish.

 

_'_ _It's a thief in the night_

_To come and grab you_

_It can creep up inside you_

_And consume you_

_A disease of the mind_

_It can control you_

_It's too close for comfort'_

**_(Disturbia, Rihanna)_ **

* * *

 

 

**n. di-sturb-i-a**

 

_\- The feeling of dread or shock that comes with the realisation that something that is normally considered normal and safe is, in fact, horribly dangerous or wrong._

_\- Derived from 'suburbia' and 'disturb' meant to describe the dark side of good, suburban neighbourhoods_

 urbandictionary.com

* * *

 

 

It was not a genuine love affair that no one will understand with time which, at the time, Stiles had thought it was.

 

So he'd stayed quiet about the clandestine meetings, secret trysts, whispered promises and sweet murmurings.

 

No, it turned out not to be genuine, at all.

 

It turned out to be wrong.

 

Like a _Kate Argent_ and Derek Hale kind of _wrong_.

 

It took a while for Stiles to get that. And by then he's left completely shattered. Destroyed. His trust completely broken. He's angry at himself too, angry at the world, angry at anything and everything, and alienated from those around him.

 

Oh... there was the tape too. They might not have been responsible for that, but the act itself – which his dad and Scott, and even Derek too, keep telling him was wrong, even when Stiles went red in the face and told them it wasn't – had far reaching consequences than any of them had ever considered.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles starts it, which is ironic, considering how it ends.

 

They try to tell him it wasn't him. That he's a victim.

 

Scott tells him he has Stockholm Syndrome even though there's no actual Stockholm to his Syndrome.

 

His dad tells him what he really thinks.

 

"It's abuse, Stiles."

 

Derek just sits there and stares at him in a weirdly disconcerting way before telling him about Kate Argent.

 

It doesn't change anything though. Stiles still started it.

 

_"This isn't happening, Stiles-" warm words press against sore lips._

 

Nothing happens at all, not for a while at least, and Stiles was left embarrassed with a stupidly confusing crush and his pride dented. He gets over it though, files it away in another Stiles Stilinski Romantic Misadventure.

 

_"This isn't happening, Stiles-"_

 

Because it was nothing and nothing happened, until it does, in a fear and adrenaline-filled frenzy. At first, Stiles had put it down as a one-time thing, something you do when you're scared or been scared and neither of you know what you're really doing. Only it's not. It keeps _happening_ until it actually is _something_ and _this isn't happening_ becomes _this shouldn't be happening._

 

* * *

 

 

His name is Jeremy. He's twenty-eight. He's the new deputy.

 

Stiles learns all of this from Callie, the officer on front desk duty, as he offers her first pickings from the freshly baked, shop bought, donuts from the box he was carrying. Donuts wasn't his usual offering, but Callie was chatty and always an info giver, especially when sweet baked goods were involved. She was one of the few original officers Stiles knew.

 

Through one of the smaller windows, he sees a tall, blonde, officer. Stiles can't but help think, which is a surprise seeing as he's been in love with Lydia since... well, forever, that the guy actually smoulders as he moves around the desks.

 

"And he's hot too."

 

Stiles blinks in surprise and realises Callie is now talking to Regina, the stations secretary. Regina's managed to snag a donut from the box and they're murmuring suspiciously at each other. Stiles might not have werewolf hearing but he can just about make out 'gay' and Regina's disappointed 'Shame'.

 

Stiles gives them a double take at that because Regina might still pass as pretty but she was probably old enough to be the new guy's grandmother. Callie glances over her shoulder and snorts at his poor poker face.

 

"Sorry?" he offers Regina uncertainly.

 

She waves him off, taking another donut in retribution, and slinks back to her desk with a sour look on her face.

 

Callie grins at him and nods in the direction of his dad's office.

 

Stiles grins sheepishly back and walks off, probably too slow for anything other than surveillance. It's not like it wasn't warranted – not with the threat of an alpha pack still at large, who Stiles might add, they still didn't know who they truly were or what they looked like. And, well... if he was being honest with himself, random strangers turning up and taking deputy positions, was at least some of his fault. He just wanted to make sure his dad, and the rest of the station, were safe. So, he had a plan – show up brandishing donuts (because, yeah, everyone loves someone who brings donuts), somehow get the new guy's scent on him and then use a particular **Sour Wolf Supper Sniffer** to sniff out any danger.

 

He's staring at the new guy, now bent at a desk, filling in a form, and considering approaching with the donuts when a voice from behind startles him. He practically jumps a mile in the air, tightening his grip on to his precious hold, praying the spongy balls survive.

 

"Stiles! What are you doing here?" his dad exclaims.

 

The new guy – Jeremy – is alerted to his presence and straightens up from his stooped position.

 

"Uh..." Stiles starts before shaking the box out in front of him. "I come bearing freshly baked goodness."

 

His dad takes one look at the box before raising suspicious eyebrows at him.

 

"Donuts? Really?"

 

"Yep," Stiles says distractedly, glancing around. His eyes meet Jeremy's across the room and he gulps nervously. He isn't sure exactly if it's because he's scared that the guy is an alpha or the fact that he surprises himself by being momentarily stunned at how mesmerising his eyes are.

 

"Since when does my son bring sugar coated gifts to the station?"

 

"Oh, all the time actually. You just don't know about it," Stiles tells him, attention back to his father. He catches his dad's hand going for the flap of the box and slaps it away. "They're not for you, dad. You're home for dinner tonight, right? If you play your cards right, you'll get a corn on the cob."

 

There's a laugh near-by and Stiles moves a little towards his dad when he realises Jeremy has stepped closer.

 

"I wish he was kidding," his dad says, turning serious eyes towards his new deputy. "But he's not."

 

"They're for the new guy," Stiles says quickly, startled by Jeremy's close proximity. He shoves what's left of the box at him, making sure to brush sleeves (because that's all he could think of short of rolling all over him) as he did so. "Welcome new guy."

 

Jeremy grapples with the box to prevent any of the Donuts escaping.

 

"Uh... Hi," Jeremy smiles effortlessly. "Son of the Sheriff."

 

Stiles has to bite his lip because that was kind of funny. Even if it was only a response to his awkwardness.

 

His dad rolls his eyes, ruffling Stiles' slightly grown out hair, and nods at Jeremy.

 

"The new guy has a name, Stiles. This is Jeremy. Jeremy, this is Stiles."

 

"Stiles," Jeremy says in a more official greeting, only it sounds more like he's testing the word out against his lips and Stiles gulps again before giving him a small wave and high-tailing it into his father's office.

 

"Stiles?" his dad asks warily, following him in. The door is closed behind them. "What was that about?"

 

"You have a new guy," Stiles points out stupidly.

 

"I thought we just went over that?" his dad says, giving him a questioning look and folding his arms across his chest. His dad has been doing this a lot around him lately. "Stiles...?"

 

"I just wanted to check that he was kosher. Okay?"

 

"Kosher?" his dad's looking at him with a vague look of concern.

 

"You don't think it's weird?" Stiles asks him, but his dad just looks at him blankly. "That some random guy turns up wanting the deputy position."

 

His dad licks his lip and looks away, as though he's suddenly realised why Stiles was dropping by unannounced with donuts.

 

"He's not just a random guy," his dad sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face and Stiles instantly feels guilty for bringing it all back. "We've been finding it hard to get recruits. An ex-colleague of mine from New York has been trying to help us out. Jeremy heard and offered to help out. It's only temporary. My friend vouched for him."

 

"It's... oh-" he finishes lamely, not entirely sure if his barely there theory had been proven invalid. He scuffs the floor with the heel of his shoe, avoiding eye contact. "Just, you know... after everything that happened... I just wanted to make sure you – and the rest of the guys, of course – were safe. It's stupid really."

 

It's stupid, but he kind of feels somewhat responsible for what happened, even if he hadn't shed any blood himself.

 

"It's not," his dad tells him, coming up and squeezing his shoulder. He looks up and blinks away the memories of the bloodied bodies strewn in front of him and the feel of a cold muzzle against his temple. "I get it, kid. I do. But Jeremy seems like one of the good ones. I promise."

 

* * *

 

 

Jeremy is polishing off a donut when Stiles passes through. He has the residue of sugar on the tip of his nose and Stiles thinks what type of alpha, if he was one at all, would be caught with powdered sugar on his face?

 

"Hmm," Stiles stalls, vaguely pointing in the direction of the sugar coating the tip of Jeremy's pixie-like nose. He wonders why he's so caught up on the fact that he's actually taking note of Jeremy's nose-shape then the fact there's something on it. "... you got some..."

 

"Oh," Jeremy says, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. He grins at him and Stiles can't help but shiver at the small, and very minute, fact that it's kind of cute. In an Isaac way, of course, not in any remotely other way. "Thanks for these. I needed a sugar boost. This should keep me going for the rest of the shift."

 

"You're... welcome?" Stiles says, instantly hating the way it ends in a question. For the most part Jeremy does sound genuine.

 

"I saved you one," Jeremy tells him, box pushed out to him and Stiles is suddenly unsure about what to do – of course, it is only a donut – but the significance seems a little different here, even if Stiles isn't entirely sure what that actually is.

 

And then the new guy is grinning at him – warm, open, inviting – and in hindsight Stiles should probably have taken heed from accepting candies from strangers, even if they were his in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

"Smell me," Stiles announces with a dramatic flounce as he drops heavily onto the dusty remains of Derek's couch. Only Isaac and Scott were there. Since the whole Alpha pack thing, Scott had been spending more time with Derek's pack.

 

Derek was scowling at the uninvited trio from the door frame. Or, you know, maybe just at him.

 

"No," came the collective response.

 

"I'm serious," Stiles tells them with the most serious face he can muster. "Smell me. Is there anything odd?"

 

Scott gives him a funny look but he sees the flare of nostrils and then a shake of the head.

 

"Actually, I meant Derek-" Stiles offers him with a grateful smile, before turning a more pleading look in the Alpha's direction. "I need the supper sniffer."

 

Isaac attempts to stifle a giggle, coughing to hide it when Derek glares at him, while Scott looks mildly offended.

 

"I told you not to call it that," Derek growls at him before taking his own sniff of the air. "You smell fine."

 

"Seriously? You don't smell any other werewolves... " he pauses for dramatic effect.”...of the alpha variety?"

 

"Why?" Derek's growls have become a little louder, and suddenly he's up in Stiles' personal space, eyes flashing red. "Should I?"

 

"There's a new guy-" Stiles squeaks out in surprise. "The deputy-"

 

Derek doesn't let him finish, just plunges his face into the deep of his neck and takes a huge sniff, which is really a bit too handsy for him and bit too disturbing for his liking. Derek's hands fist into the sides of his hoody.

 

“Well…” Stiles coughs loudly. “This is disturbing and a whole lotta awkward.”

 

"Nothing," Derek declares, releasing his hold and stalking back to his original position as though he had never manhandled Stiles in the first place.

 

"Nothing?" Stiles repeats and he knows he sounds disappointed by this.

 

The others have seemed to have noticed too because Scott's giving him that funny look again, Isaac nudges him, and Derek is looking at him with a questionable frown.

 

"Just your usual – soap, cinnamon, your dad... sugar."

 

"Donuts," Stiles offers in explanation.

 

"Donuts?" Isaac perks up from beside him with a hopeful look on his face.

 

"Sorry..." Stiles says, although by the look on everyone's faces they know he isn't. "I ate it."

 

Isaac looks a little crestfallen.

 

They're joined a short while later by Erica and Boyd, who'd barely escaped the alpha pack several weeks earlier. By the lack of response both of them give to his presence (and he'd been sure that they would have picked up on it if it had been there) he sat gloomily, realising that Jeremy was just... Jeremy.

 

While the pack formed into an easy chatter, Stiles sat and pondered what this little fact actually meant. If Jeremy was just human and simply his dad's new deputy... well the alternative was just plain confusing. He ends up sitting there, sandwiched between Isaac and Erica, who took great delight in the fact that Stiles now smelt like Derek thanks to the previous manhandling, anxious and fidgeting as he thought what it actually meant. As soon as the thought was passed, processed and compartmentalised as being completely insane, it would start up again and cause him to fidget some more.

 

He ignored the questionable frown Derek was still staring with or the subtle kicks to his foot, from where Scott was sat, or the way his eyes were twitching at him in the secret code for 'what's going on, man?'

 

Stiles takes the opportunity to flee when Isaac and Boyd leave for a pizza-run (because Derek wouldn't let them order if it meant some delivery guy coming to the Hale house and seeing a bunch of teenagers hanging around) and feels Scott following behind.

 

"Stiles! Wait..." he hears Scott call from behind.

 

Stiles doesn't stop. In fact he doesn't stop at the Jeep either, just keeps going as the feeling in his chest expands and the panic rises.

 

"Stiles-" Scott says again, easily catching up with him, grabbing at him. He forces him to turn to face him. "What's going on, man?"

 

Stiles manages an eye roll because that's exactly what those twitchy eye movements had meant.

 

"He couldn't smell any alpha's," Stiles says, voice hitching in panic. He breaks away from Scott's hold and paces in front of him, burying his face into his hands.

 

"I know," Scott reminds him, sounding confused. "We established that."

 

"My dad has a new deputy," he paces a little more.

 

"Also established."

 

"Who's not an alpha?"

 

"I know," Scott says with a growl of frustration. "Stiles... what's-"

 

"I think he's cute," Stiles blurts out, dropping his hands and then shrugging. "Shit. Shit-"

 

Scott's face is a picture – his mouth drops open, his body stills – and Stile's mouth jabbers on at a mile a minute until Scott shakes out of his stupor and grabs him, dragging him further away from the remains of the house, probably out of wolfy-hearing range.

 

"Okay... okay..." Scott's insisting until they stumble to a stop.

 

"Shit... did they hear any of that?"

 

Scott listens and shakes his head.

 

"I don't get it, Scott," Stiles says, continuing his pacing, kicking up dirt as he does. "I'm Stiles Stilinski. I'm supposed to fancy Lydia Martin – and yes, that ship has truly sailed, but I still fancy her."

 

"Maybe you're not gay," Scott reminds him.

 

"Like bi?"

 

Scott shrugs.

 

"So I just wake one day and start liking guys?" Stiles asks incredulously, continuing to kick dust up. "I've never liked guys before – I mean out of all you, if I was going to like anyone, it would be Derek, right? What with the cheek-bones, the designer stubble and all that brooding," he flails his hand around in the air. "But, no. Nothing."

 

Scott looks a little sick at the thought.

 

"Maybe you haven't met anyone you've liked until now."

 

"Scott-" Stiles warns. "You're supposed to be talking me down from a crisis."

 

"You don't fancy every girl you meet. Do you?" and yes, it really is something when Scott McCall is the voice of reason.

 

"Oh god," Stiles declares miserably. He stops pacing the dusty ground and sinks to the floor. He feels Scott lower himself next to him, a warm arm resting around his shoulder.

 

"You're taking this surprisingly well," he tells Scott.

 

"You're my best friend," Scott tells him back, squeezing his arm. "I love you."

 

Despite the hysteria Stiles has worked himself into, he manages a surprised smile of his own, watery around the edges.

 

They sit like that in silence for nearly an hour, Stiles picking at small tufts of dried grass, rolling the dirt between his fingers.

 

"He's the deputy," Stiles breaks the silence of the night.

 

"And you're the sheriff's son," Scott says back to him with a nudge. "I don't know why you're freaking so much. It's not like anything would happen."

 

No, nothing would happen. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks pass and Stiles calms with it, thinking it was a fleeting thought. Routine replaces it – Harris gives him detentions, he catches a few z's through Econ and he manages a few side-eyes at Lydia and Jackson who seemed permanently attached at the lips. Rinse and repeat.

 

It's during a lunch drop off to his dad that he finds himself in the company of Jeremy while his dad was finishing a meeting. He falls in to a litany (not unusual for him, but this was filled with too many highs and lows to be anything but awkward) and somehow ends up telling him about Lydia.

 

"So?"

 

"So? I've liked her since 8th grade and I've spent all this time trying to woo her," he watches as Jeremy's eyebrows raise over the top of the computer monitor he was sat at. "And she ends up canoodling with Jackson Whittemore." It ends with a sneer.

 

"Wooing? Canoodling?" Jeremy snorts and shakes his head, continuing to type. "No wonder you're still single."

 

"What? They're things..." Stiles says defensively.

 

"From the 18th century," Jeremy smirks at him. "It's kinda cute though."

 

"I'm not really going for cute," he says miserably.

 

"Well, good luck with that," Jeremy winks at him. "Besides from what you've told me this Lydia Martin doesn't do wooing. She seems high maintenance. You're probably better off without her."

 

Besides the fact that Lydia has shunned him a million times over he's quick to her defence.

 

"She's not like that. Not really."

 

"She picks the douche over the good guy. Sounds like it."

 

Stiles laughs nervously before shaking his head.

 

"It doesn't matter anyway."

 

"It doesn't?"

 

"I'm Stiles," he says with a shrug. "I'm the one everyone laughs with... or at. I'm not exactly desirable. I don't have the looks. Not like Jackson. I'm a bit of a loser really."

 

"Stiles..." he hears a sigh from the other side of the desk and looks up.

 

Jeremy's pushed the monitor aside slightly so that he's looking directly at Stiles and for the life of him he can't avert his eyes.

 

"You're none of those things."

 

Stiles feels the blush almost instantly but is saved from further embarrassment when the door to his dad's office opens and he's waving him over.

 

"Gotta go," he tells him, still flushing and waving the salad box in the air. "Time to feed my dad."

 

He glances back just as he's stepping through the office doorway, ignoring the way his dad scowls at his choice of lunch, to see that Jeremy is still sat there watching him back.

 

* * *

 

 

It's about a week later when something happens. He files it as a non-thing though thanks to his own self-preservation and Jeremy's pretence that Stiles never did anything in the first place. Like molest him in the record room. Or the more realistic episode where a one Stiles Stilinski threw himself at the deputy, which is what happened.

 

But it's a non-thing, so it really didn't count. Right?

 

It's not like he sought Jeremy out. Because he didn't. He'd actually been waiting for his dad.

 

He's sat in his dad's office, spinning in the chair, while his dad finishes up paperwork. They were going to get dinner on the way home and have a rather rare Stilinski night together.

 

He's spinning and spinning, watching as the small ball-pen – including a particular deputy – appear and then disappear out of sight until he stops mid-spin. His dad is leant across the desk and has a hold of the arm of the chair.

 

"Stiles!" his dad barks at him.

 

"Sorry," Stiles tells him, slumping lower in the chair and flipping his hood up. His voice lingers on whiny. "I'm bored."

 

His dad nods and waves at his door.

 

"I'm going to be at least another hour," he tells him apologetically. "Why don't you go home, kid? I'll bring something in."

 

Stiles rolls his eyes because he knows his dad's 'something' will probably be swimming in fat and grease.

 

"I can't dad," Stiles reminds him with another exaggerated eye-roll. He tries to slide his hand in the air between them in what he hoped looks vaguely smooth. "You wanted to cruise in the cruiser. Curly fries. Remember?"

 

"I think that was all you," his dad says with a grin, before waving him away again. "Go and distract yourself - "

 

"Okay," Stiles says jumping up.

 

"- Without annoying anyone," his dad finishes with a pointed look.

 

Stiles immediately drops back down with a sigh.

 

"Stiles-" his dad warns.

 

"Sheriff?"

 

Stiles jumps in his seat, having to turn because of the hood, to see that Jeremy freakin' Shepton (yeah, in all the confusion, Stiles might have forgotten to introduce him formally) is standing there in the door-way.

 

"Deputy?"

 

"I have quite a few files that need to go to the record room," he says. He has a bundle of brown paper files in his arms. Stiles can see even more on his desk. "Can I borrow Stiles?"

 

"Please do," his dad tells him and Stiles mutters under his breath before rising.

 

"You know getting your kid to work for food," Stiles says loudly, over his shoulder as he heads to where Jeremy is still holding the door open for him. "Could be considered child labor."

 

He hears his dad snort at him.

 

"Just don't let him read any of the files," his dad tells Jeremy from behind.

 

"Dad!" Stiles exclaims with mock shock, glancing back at him. "As if I would ever do that."

 

His dad just glares at him and Stiles chortles loudly.

 

"Yeah," Stiles tells Jeremy as he moves to pass him, still laughing. "I so would."

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles ends up talking Jeremy's ear off – nothing in particular – nonsense really. It's what Stiles does when he's nervous and taken too much Adderall.

 

They're three files away from finishing when it happens – Stiles, two steps away from the bottom of the ladder, trying to figure out how not to (and in some cases how to) brush arms or fingertips (so very _adolescent_ of him) and talking shit when he stretches and over-balances, falling like a damsel in distress.

 

Jeremy, who really doesn't catch him in his arms, steadies him at the bottom.

 

"Nearly," Jeremy laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

 

Stiles laughs too, licking his lips nervously, because they're so freaking close and that's when he reacts. It's him. Not Jeremy. Because Stiles is suddenly throwing himself at him. They both stumble back into the shelves as Stiles smashes his lips against ones parted in surprise. It's hard and bruising and turns out to be very non-sexy.

 

"This isn't happening, Stiles-" warm words press against sore lips before gentle hands push at him.

 

Stiles jackknifes away, mortified, cheeks burning.

 

"Of course," Stiles mutters... stutters, backing away. It feels like the floor is falling away, like he's about to – or maybe hopes to – slip right through it. "That was... stupid."

 

"It's okay."

 

"No," Stiles insists feeling the horror of shame and embarrassment and rejection mingle with the building palpitations in his chest. He won’t cry. He won’t fucking cry. "Shit. I'm really freaking sorry."

 

"Stiles," Jeremy insists, inching forward as though he was a startled animal. "It's okay."

 

"No," Stiles repeats, turning away. He feels the sting of tears that he won’t let come. There's even the tacky feel of a cold sweat breaking out across his back.

 

"Nothing happened, Stiles. We're still good."

 

"I should go," Stiles blurts out before practically fleeing back to his dad's office.

 

He garbles something about the record room being too hot and how he nearly fainted and his flushed face, clammy appearance and racing heart all help in backing him up. He must look like complete shit because his dad takes one look at him before he abandons the rest of his paperwork and ushers Stiles home with a cooling hand around his neck.

 

He never did get his god-damn curly fries.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott finds him out by the school field re-threading his lacrosse stick. He's not seen much of his friend over the last few weeks what with Scott still loved up with Allison as well as spending more time with Isaac. Stiles got it. He really did. Isaac had a crappy dad, Scott had an absent one. It was only natural for them to be spending time together.

 

It still stung though, at least after their last heart to heart, and Stiles couldn't help feel like, although supportive of him, his friend had abandoned him to his own whirlwind adolescent crisis. He wasn't in the mood for another one if Scott was going to be a no show for the aftermath.

 

"What's happened?" Scott asks him, sitting on a bleacher near him and sniffing at the air. "You smell different."

 

"How about shame, embarrassment, one huge epic mistake?" Stiles mutters next to him. He instantly hates that he's already talking to him. Scott might be a dick for a lot of the time, but he was the only one he could trust to talk to and he, apparently, loved him in a bromance kind of way. "Any of that coming through?"

 

Scott stares at him with a worried frown and Stiles swears under his breath when one his threads go awry. He yanks it back angrily before shoving it through again.

 

"Stiles?"

 

"I kissed him."

 

"What?"

 

"The deputy," Stiles says, stalling mid thread to look at Scott's reaction. "I kissed him."

 

Scott’s face morphs into shock, eyes flashing yellow as the worried look slips back into place. He instantly leaves the bench he's on to sit beside him. Stiles can feel the anger reverberating through him.

 

"Down boy," Stiles laughs drily at his friend and waves off his concern. "Nothing actually happened."

 

"He didn't..."

 

"No. He didn't," It's answered a little bitterly before a pained giggle erupts from him. "He pushed me away, told me he wasn't interested."

 

"Stiles," Scott attempts to comfort him, an awkward hand falling on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

 

"Don't be," Stiles says, brushing him off. "It was mistake. He was pretty good about it actually, you know? Acted like I didn't even do anything."

 

They're silent for a few minutes, until Stiles levers himself up and offers a hand to Scott.

 

"Come on. I don't want to be late for Harris," Stiles tells him, heading back in the direction of the school. "I can't deal with detention today."

 

He feels, rather than hears, Scott following. A little too closely. A growl flutters up around them.

 

"Scott," Stiles whines in protest. "Seriously, I'm fine. It's not even a thing."

 

It's not. It's not anything. It's a non-thing.

 

* * *

 

 

When something does actually happen – well, Stiles files it as one-time thing and more as a result of the hysteria that he finds himself in and the fact that Jeremy had just had a brush with death. He figures that neither of them are responsible.

 

He'd stopped by the station on the way home from school – just as a drop in and a check-up with his dad – because he hadn't seen much of him that week. But the station was eerily quiet and no one was on the front desk.

 

Instantly Stiles is on guard - the last time it had been like this, there'd been several dead bodies littered around

 

"Dad?" he calls out, voice shaky and unsteady. Probably not the best thing to do if there was some hostage situation brewing, but common sense flies out the window when panic sets in. "Anyone?"

 

He's slowly creeping about, actually looking, and expecting to find a dead body when he hears his name being called from behind.

 

"Stiles?"

 

"Oh my god," Stiles actually finds himself shrieking, stumbling against the counter before seeing someone standing a few feet in front of him. "Jeremy?"

 

Stiles spots the familiar red droplets and splatter across the older man's uniform.

 

"Is that... blood?" Stiles asks, before rushing forward. He tries to pat at him, checking for injuries. "Oh, god. Are you okay? What happened?"

 

"I'm fine" he says, catching Stiles wrist mid-flail.

 

"What happened?" Stiles breathes out. Shock was dwindling out, fear and panic quickly rearing back up. "Where's everyone?"

 

"Search party," Jeremy answers gruffly, pushing past him and heading for his desk. "I was sent back to clean up and man the front desk. Officer Shelby took my place."

 

"Someone's missing?" Stiles asks. He knows he sounds small and a lot freaked. Jeremy decides to strip there in front of him – causing Stiles to gawk, unable to tear his eyes away – changing his torn and bloodied shirt for a clean one that had been neatly folded in his draw.

 

"Mrs Rushton."

 

Stiles remembers her. She had a lot of cats. He, along with Scott, had renamed her Mrs Pickles because, at the time, they'd both been avid fans of 'Psych' despite the fact that her namesake was neither a person nor even canon-real.

 

"Mrs Pickles?" Stiles asks. Stiles corrects himself at Jeremy's blank stare. "The cat lady."

 

"Oh, right. Yes, most probably. We found a lot of dead cats," Jeremy nods at him, finishing with his buttons. "Something attacked me. The others said it was probably a mountain lion. You get that a lot?"

 

Stiles shrugs. "I guess."

 

"I could have sworn it was a wolf..."

 

Stiles stills at that. Now suddenly he really is panicking. He should be calling Derek right now, but he fumbles over his phone, seeking out his dad instead.

 

"I can't get hold of my dad," Stiles tells Jeremy when he repeatedly gets voice-mail. "He's okay, right?"

 

"Stiles-" Jeremy starts with a tone that's too cautious to be comforting. It was probably something that he should have lead the conversation with.

 

"What?" Stiles asks, biting at his lip, stabbing at his phone again.

 

"He was out looking," Jeremy's telling him. Stiles can see lips moving. Words come later. "We can't get him over the radio. We've got a search party. I'm sure he's okay."

 

Stiles stares and then nods numbly.

 

"I should go," he says quietly, wondering what he was going to do. Go to Derek? Wander aimlessly through the woods and hope for the best?

 

He turns to go, hears his name being called, and is only slightly aware that he's started to hyperventilate, tears on his face.

 

"Wait, Stiles-" he's being pulled back and he struggles against it until suddenly they're in the reverse to what they were in the file room, and he's being pushed back against a wall. A soft, warm, body presses against him. Jeremy's close... very close... and it really, genuinely, takes him by surprise when urgent lips press against his own. Despite the fear and adrenalin – or maybe because of it – Stiles responds eagerly, opening his mouth half in shock and half in desire.

 

Jeremy pulls away just as quickly, face flushed, lips pink.

 

"Shit..." he murmurs, a shaky hand running through dishevelled hair. “That shouldn't have happened."

 

He tries to push away, but Stiles snags his arm and lets out a frustrated groan.

 

"Don't go," Stiles pleads, a sob caught in his throat, a mixture of despair and lust trapped in his chest. He tugs at Jeremy and pulls him closer, parting his mouth again in an open invitation, twisting his hands into the uniform in front of him. "Please."

 

Jeremy tentatively lets Stiles pull him closer until there's hardly any space between them, hands bracing either side of him against the wall. He hesitates for all of a second before his lips are upon his again, exploring the inside of his mouth, and then Stiles is baring his neck, letting Jeremy pepper it with unchaste kisses, and all the while there's the tell-tale signs of tears on his face.

 

* * *

 

  _tbc_


	2. When I Feel I'm Slipping Further Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just felt that The Wallflowers was apt for this. 
> 
> I haven't finished the last chapter yet - but it will feature a lot of Derek, Scott and the Sheriff's responses to the fall-out. 
> 
> I hope this is coming across as authentic. Apart from one non-con fic I haven't really written anything remotely sexual and it's quite hard to write it from Stiles' pov and try and inter-weave manipulation. It's probably the most nervous I have been when posting anything in a long time.   
> All feedback is welcome :D

 

_When I feel I'm slipping further away_

_I remember that everyday_

_I get a little bit closer to you_

_**(Closer, Wallflowers)** _

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that his dad’s okay. His radio was out and he’d left his mobile on his desk. The Cruiser, too, took a beating from a rather, and very conveniently explained, ‘animal attack’. His dad had ended up getting stuck with Mrs Pickles who was hysterical that her clowder were dead.

Which all meant his adrenalin-filled make-out session was for nothing. And… a mistake? A faux-pas on both their parts? A thoroughly good adventure of tasting the other side but in reflection was never ever going to happen again. Ever.

Nope

Never

Ever

He did a pretty good job of making that pretty obvious. Of course, it’s not like Jeremy thought any differently… he’d practically fled the first chance either of them had come up for air and Stiles had been left floundering against the wall he’d been pushed up against wondering ‘what. the. fuck. just. happened?’

Stiles managed to avoid the station for nearly a week after until his dad questioned him if everything was okay. Why hadn’t he been annoyingly stopping by? Why wasn’t he harassing his deputies? Why wasn’t he doing spot-checks on his lunch? Did he feel okay? Was anything wrong?

He laughed them all off and told his dad he’d been busy, mostly with Scott and a couple of their friends. How was his dad to know that Stiles had, in fact, actually been avoiding them too?

He’d ended up stopping by the station the second week of post-deputy-gate to avoid any other raised suspicions. He’d bought the bullet and attempted a conversation with Jeremy which only resulted in him coughing through an awkward way of trying to explain that they must have both been temporary insane and actually apologising for it.

He surmises that it didn’t actually happen, that being shell-shocked and in despair equalled anything that happened that very night as not actually happening. A Do-Over if you will.

Because it didn’t happen.

Jeremy ends up smiling at him the way he normally does. Warm and inviting. And Stiles ends up licking his lip and flushing just a little bit more before making his excuses and seeking his dad out.

 

* * *

 

 

Another week passes before anything else happens.

It leaves Stiles more than a little-flabbergasted (and, you know, horny as hell) because he had seriously thought he and Jeremy were on the same page. It’s not happening. All that jazz. Only it seems that Jeremy has other ideas now.

And, as it turns out, he’s really handsy.

He’d had a day from hell. Harris had been a total bitch and laid an extra detention on him and Lacrosse practice had been both rough and late finishing. All he had wanted was to go home (and yes, avoiding Scott’s miniscule pack-meeting in the process) and crash out in bed.

Only when he gets home not only is his dad there, watching the game, but Jeremy too.

“Hey kid,” his dad tells him, glancing up and waving him off to the kitchen. “I invited Jeremy around to watch the game. There’s some pizza left for you.”

Jeremy’s sitting there with a beer in his hand and an empty pizza box by his side, casually smiling up at him as though being here, now, was the most natural thing he could be doing. Admittedly, he had been okay with him at the station the few times he had stopped by, but it’s one thing being civil with him at the ‘office’ and another thing entirely to be lounging on the sofa without a care in the world.

“Stiles?” his dad’s voice breaks into his thoughts and Stiles draws his attention away from Jeremy who smirks at him. “You going to watch the rest of the game with us.”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head, alarmed at the idea. Like hell he’s going to sit there with his dad and his very recent clandestine make-out session. “I’ve got a ton of homework to do…” He doesn’t. He did it all in detention. Great, another thing he could hate Harris for, but it was always a good excuse. “I’ll just grab the pizza and head up.”

His dad grunts at him while he makes a beeline for the kitchen and Stiles is grateful that he seems so immersed in the game he hadn’t noticed Stiles lack of reprimanding him over his eating habits.

He’s just placing the pizza on a plate and grabbing a cola when a presence behind him makes him jump. Sure enough, Jeremy’s there, with that fucking gorgeous lazy grin of his.

“Christ. Warn a guy,” Stiles mutters at him, pushing the plate and can back on to the counter. He shoves at Jeremy, pushing himself around. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Watching the game,” Jeremy supplies with a nonchalant shrug.

“Watching the game,” Stiles repeats, anger flaring. “Ok, you know how I see it? I’m doing all the hard work. I tried to make you feel better. I fucking apologised. What the hell for? Because I sure as don’t know. It’s one thing to feel like I can’t hang around the station like I did, but to come home…” he ends up jabbing Jeremy square in the chest. “I’m the one who was humiliated.”

“Hey,” Jeremy protests, eyebrows rising in amusement. He grabs at Stiles offending digit and holds on. “It takes two to tango. No one was humiliated. I’m sorry if you felt like that.”

“Two to tango,” Stiles huffs out, staring down at his finger which was still in Jeremy’s grasp. “You know how fucking cheesy that sounds?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy smiles at him, releasing his finger. “It’s up there with thinking ‘wooing’ is hip and cool.”

Stiles stubbornly juts his chin out and stares at a corner of the kitchen.

“Stiles,” Jeremy says, suddenly invading his line of sight when it becomes apparent he’s going to ignore him until he leaves. He does a pretty good job of avoiding eye contact until Jeremy reaches out, touching his face, and forces him to look at him. “Do you really think I only came to watch the game?”

“Yes,” Stiles says immediately. He’s already shaking his head in confusion by the time Jeremy is inching forward, brushing his lips against his own. “No? Maybe? I have no idea what the hell is going on,” Stiles mumbles against Jeremy’s mouth.

He’s unexpectedly lifted from the ground and pushed up higher so that he sits against the counter – his body’s basically a pretzel of limbs – and he has a giddy second to think, as lean and buff as Jeremy is, Derek (or anyone of the werewolf-related variety) could have just swept him up there. Okay. Random.

He feels a surprising, but pleasant, pressure pushing against him. His own crotch tightens in response.

“Oh,” he manages to say.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jeremy hums against him. “Absolutely amazing.”

Stiles chest tightens, and it’s probably the most inappropriate time but he thinks of his mom. In all this time, since his mom had died, no one has ever said anything like that – and he remembers, remembers his mom patting his head, spinning him around and saying _‘my gorgeous boy’_ and _‘you’re amazing.’_ He wants to cry and tell Jeremy ‘thank you’ but instead he parts his mouth and lets him push his tongue in, letting Jeremy slide cool hands under his shirt, sliding them against the arch of his back and shivering into it.

“Jeremy?” His dad’s voice barks out, “Where the hell is my beer? I’m dying of thirst out here.”

Stiles instantly freezes and pushes Jeremy away from him.

Jeremy just smirks at him and pushes forward again, ignoring Stiles panicked shake of the head at the fear his dad _could walk in on them any minute now_. Jeremy chuckles, leaning in and reaching around him, snagging two cans from the already open packet.

“See you around, Stiles,” he casually says over his shoulder as he saunters back into the lounge.

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks after him, not knowing what the hell just happened apart from realising _‘this isn’t happening’_ officially became _this shouldn’t be happening._

* * *

 

 

Jeremy unexpectedly turns up to watch his next Lacrosse game and Stiles can’t help smiling like a Cheshire cat. It’s not like he’s first line but the coach has deemed him good enough to play. And he really _isn’t_ that bad.

Scott notices his smiling during half-time and bumps his shoulder.

“Dude, what are smiling at?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, shrugging, glad that his helmet hid the obvious flush he felt to his cheeks. “Just that it’s a good game.”

“We’re losing,” Scott notes, lifting his helmet, and looking quizzically at him.

He sees Jeremy offering a thumbs up from the bleachers, over Scott’s shoulder, and laughs loudly.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Stiles says, punching Scott’s shoulder. He hooks his Lacrosse stick under his arm and runs off to join the returning players hearing Scott mutter _‘what the hell’_ quietly to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles waits for everyone to be long gone, including Scott who leaves with Isaac, before joining Jeremy on the bleachers.

“I didn’t know you were into Lacrosse,” Stiles tells him.

“I’m not,” Jeremy answers with a small smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Oh,” Stiles answers, blushing.

“You played good,” Jeremy says, slowly laying his hand against Stiles own.

“You know I’m not really used to any of this, right?” Stiles offers weakly, blushing further. He lets Jeremy entwine their fingers.

“I noticed,” Jeremy grins.

He lets out a small nervous giggle. He’d been going for a chuckle but it turns out too high and pathetic sounding to even qualify.

Jeremy smiles as though it’s the most adorable thing he’s heard and releases his hand only to replace it with an arm slung around his shoulder, pulling him in closer.

“Good job at least one of us is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jeremy tells him he actually hates Lacrosse.

That it’s not really a proper sport.

That it’s not a man’s game.

That Stiles could do better.

It puts a little dampener on the night but Stiles figures that they like different things and then Jeremy tells him he only came to watch the game because of _him._

Any ill-feelings is lost soon after and Stiles forgets what he’s supposed to be angry about, especially when an errant hand finds its way into his pants.

It’s the third time now. It’s actually become a pattern.

It’s now a thing.

 

* * *

 

 

They continue like this for over a month.

Chaste meetings

Illicit moments, if you will, because _‘no one will understand us, Stiles.’_

Stiles understands. He really does. He doesn’t think, not for a second, what they’re doing is wrong. Jeremy makes him feel alive. He makes him feel amazing. They have the same humor. They laugh at the same things. Jeremy makes him feel (as corny as it sounds)… special. For the first times in ages Stiles doesn’t have to worry about being killed. Of being beaten by psychotic oldies who mistakenly believe you’re important. But that’s what Jeremy makes him feel like.

Important.

The centre of someone’s universe.

Sometimes he thinks, maybe just a little foolishly, that he can make others understand. It’s not like they have done anything wrong apart from the hands down the pants, tongues down throats and borderline pornographic touching (not that there was anything wrong with it.) They haven’t even done _it._ Jeremy hadn’t even tried. Not even with Stiles writhing against him.

Maybe it was Stiles who was being the miscreant.

Maybe Jeremy had his very own little Lolita.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles ends up spending more and more time with Jeremy in their surreptitious moments that they can grab together.

Ultimately, something has to give and Stiles finds himself spending less time with Scott and the others, sometimes outright avoiding them (and wearing a shit load of aftershave and deodorant to mask any suspicious smells) even going as far as leaving the school campus at lunch for heated make-outs. He even skips Harris for an impromptu blowjob.

It probably doesn’t help that Jeremy tells him how much better he can do in the friend department. Stiles takes offence at that and tells Jeremy that it’s a pretty shit thing to say but then he’s left with no choice but to agree when he’s reminded at how they’ve been abandoning him.

Jeremy reminds him that he’s outgrown Scott.

That they’re not best friends anymore.

That Isaac’s replaced him.

That Lydia never loved him.

That Jackson was never his friend and would use his popularity to always remind him of this.

Then Jeremy is pulling him closer, hugging him, whispering things to make him feel better, like how he’s all of these to him, and much more.

Stiles feels beaten and more than a little drunk when he hears all of this.

 

* * *

 

Jeremy’s birthday comes and goes

Stiles spends more than he can afford on a watch Jeremy probably will never wear in public.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t question any of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott tries to talk to him today

Stiles tells him he’s too busy.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s starting to get frustrated

And a little worry creeps up his spine.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles feels more alone than ever.

Even with a gorgeous older guy who seems to look right into his soul.

Like there was nothing else in the world.

Only there is.

And Stiles isn’t part of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Shortly after the two and half month milestone Stiles come home from school early, ignoring Scott’s request to _‘please come tonight. We’re meeting at Derek’s. I’m worried about you, man.’_

Stiles has no intention of going. It’s hard enough hiding this tryst as it was – in a school, hell anywhere _outside,_ there were loads of convenient hiding places to avoid any unwanted attention. A pack full of werewolf’s with an in-built lie-detector was another ball game entirely.

Ironically, hiding it from his dad was the easiest, probably because he’d hardly expect his new shiny deputy to fall into a full-blown affair with his son.

Stile also forgoes Lacrosse practice with a no-show (and probably the reason for Scott’s voicemail) and for the first time in ages it’s not because he’s secretly meeting up with Jeremy.

He’s been home nearly half an hour when there’s a knock at the door. Stiles can tell by the stature of the silhouette of the person behind the glass that it’s not Scott (who would have probably just let himself in, anyway).

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, swinging the door open.

“Well… that’s a nice way to greet your lover,” Jeremy makes a sour face at him.

“What? You want me to throw myself at you on the doorstep?” Stiles mutters sarcastically. “I’m sure the neighbors would love that.”

“I’m sure they would,” Jeremy says, wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“What are you doing here at this time? You’re breaking protocol.”

“Can’t the Sheriff’s deputy come and check on the welfare of his son?”

Stiles tuts at him but steps aside to let him pass by.

No sooner than the door is closed Jeremy is on him, hands traveling this way and that, pushing him into the wall.

Despite Stiles irritability they somehow end up on Stiles bed, Jeremy straddling him, and pinning him to the bed.

“Okay, okay…” Stiles says breathlessly, pushing at Jeremy. “Not that I don’t mind mid-afternoon foreplay and… okay, well… shit… the hands. It’s always the hands…” Stiles gasps as Jeremy slides a hand between his legs. “Need to talk, Jeremy.”

Jeremy doesn’t stop and Stiles repeats himself, even going as far as telling him to stop but it only results in Stiles having to yell and eventually shoving Jeremy off him.

“What?!” he snaps and Stiles blinks in surprise because Jeremy actually looks pissed off.

“I want to talk,” Stiles says, quieter than he intended, because Jeremy’s still straddling his legs.

“About what?”

“Us? This?” Stiles says frustratingly, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Like what the fuck this is?”

“I think it’s obvious…” Jeremy says with a roll of the eyes. He tries to lean down again, going in for a kiss.

“I’m serious,” Stiles protests, pushing him back up again.

“Are we dating?” Stiles asks. He bites his lip and shakes his head. “Because at the moment it’s starting to feel like a friends with benefit-type of thing.”

“Stiles…” Jeremy sighs.

“No, listen to me. I’ve been avoiding my friends. I’m even thinking of quitting Lacrosse.”

“I never asked you to do those things!” Jeremy says angrily. He even shoves Stiles further down on to the mattress. “Don’t make out like I did.”

Stiles lets out a gasp of surprise. He knows he should probably kick Jeremy right out of his bed, but instead he finds himself clasping the older man’s face between his hands.

“Okay… okay,” he reassures, voice shaking a little. “It’s just that, right at this moment, apart from my dad, you’re the only I’ve got.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen, eyes actually looking wet, and lets in a wild breath. Stiles heart shudders wildly, alarmed at Jeremy’s fluctuating emotions. He’s always been so calm and collected. Smooth. Stiles has never seen him like this before.

“I don’t want this to be just about sex. Not that we’ve got to that part yet… but we might as well have, right? It’s practically sex. Just without the penetration. That’s a thing, right?” Stiles finds his mouth running away from him. “My whole life has changed, Jeremy… and we’ve not even gone on a proper date yet.”

“Stiles…” Jeremy sighs, shaking his head. He grabs at Stiles hands and squeezes. “You’re the Sheriff’s son and I’m the deputy. Everyone knows who we are.”

“I know,” Stiles mutters dejectedly. He doesn’t need a reminder. He wonders if this is the part where they break up. “We could try somewhere else. Somewhere where no one knows us.”

“You know we’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Stiles nods and pulls his hand away, awaiting the inevitable. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. Not for ages. It was Jeremy who was hung up on it. Stiles would make people understand. And if they didn’t… well, they could go screw themselves. No, Stiles was more stuck on the fact that he wanted to make a relationship out of it. And it wasn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be hard. You’re supposed to work hard at it.

“No one will get it. They won’t understand. They’ll make it into something that it’s not…” Jeremy says. He unexpectedly tugs Stiles up, mouths brushing against each other, gentler than usual. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work, I promise.”

And then Jeremy’s pushing him back down, and Stiles goes compliantly, allowing himself to be manipulated into a position against the pillow. The words _I love you_ are being whispered into his ear and any apprehension is reluctantly pushed to the back of his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

His dad comes home quite late only a week later to say he had left Jeremy in a foul mood at the station. Stiles goes there to find out if he’s okay.

He doesn’t get any further than _what’s wrong_ before he loses his virginity. Only it’s right there on his dad’s desk.

It’s not one of his proudest moments.

But it sure felt fucking good.

 

* * *

 

 

“You had sex,” Isaac announces to the group at the table.

It seems that Stiles hasn’t done enough to avoid everyone today and without a Jeremy-meet up to help he soon finds that the table fills up quickly. Allison on one side, Boyd and Erica on the other. Lydia and Jackson sit opposite with Isaac and Scott sitting to their left.

Jackson spits his water out across the table.

“Stilinski lost the V-Card?” he asks in surprise.

“What?” Stiles pauses mid-bite of his apple. “Shut up.”

“Don’t deny it,” Isaac grins wildly at him. “I can smell it. It’s all over you.”

Stiles shifts his eyes to Scott, who was staring at him, burning a hole in in his head. Scott blinks in surprise when he realises Stiles has turned his attention to him and responds with a nod to the head. “What he said.”

“You two are seriously having too much of it,” Stiles mutters, taking a bite of his apple and chewing obnoxiously. He realises only after everyone stares at him how it sounds and breaks into a loud cackle. He has to put his apple down so he can brace himself against the table. “Well… that came out wrong. Or maybe, you know, it explains a lot. What? Allison not doing it for you anymore, Scott?”

“Hey,” It’s Isaac who protests, which is surprising. Maybe Stiles should be paying more attention. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve obviously woken up the twilight zone.”

It’s clear now, that Stiles has made everyone feel awkward, and the small gap between Isaac and Scott now suddenly doesn’t look big enough.

“So,” Lydia chimes in, gracefully trying to calm the situation down. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Stiles wants to snort at that. They’d all have an aneurism if they knew.

“A gentleman never tells,” Stiles answers, winking at Lydia.

Jackson laughs and smirks at him.

“That means it was really dirty. Welcome to the club Stilinski.”

“Jackson!” Lydia protests, punching at his arm with a small hand.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Stiles says, feigning (or not as the case may be) superiority and wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Scott follows him outside and waits until they are well out of earshot before he speaks.

“Are you at least going to tell me?” he asks walking behind him

“Nope.”

“It’s not that guy from the station, is it?”

Stiles does a good job at keeping his heart beat at a steady rate. _Don’t fuck it up now._

“Because I’ve smelt him on you a couple of a times…”

“Uh… yeah, of course,” Stiles rolls his eyes, turning to face Scott with a scowl on his face. “I’m not part of your little rag-tag of a pack.”

“They’re not my pack,” Scott says with a shake of the head. A confused expression blossoms over his face. “It’s just me and Isaac, really.”

Stiles waits patiently for the light-bulb moment so he can shake his head with a _duh_ but it never comes. “Look… if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly doing that well in the friend department, so yeah… I’ve been spending more time at the station. Where else am I going to go?” Stiles mutters. “It’s only natural you might smell him around.”

“We are friends,” Scott protests.

“Really?” he asks, averting his eyes and twisting the strap over his shoulder from his backpack between his hands. “Lately it feels like we’re going in different directions. It’s kind of hard to keep up.”

Scott frowns at him in concern.

“I’ve tried, man. You’ve never been interested.”

“I just… things are changing,” Stiles shrugs.

“You don’t seem happy,” Scott observes. Stiles just blinks back, not knowing what to say. It’s not that he’s unhappy. He’s in love. It feels great. But everything else around this one element isn’t. There’s still tension with his dad. He’s relationship with Scott was disintegrating, despite Scott’s weak attempt to keep it tethered. And his existence outside of Jeremy seemed distant from everything else. The more intense they became the more Stiles didn’t feel like he was part of anything else. And as obtuse as Scott could be it was still very astute of him to see, that although he might not be unhappy, he wasn’t entirely happy either.

“I am,” Stiles answers quickly.

He uses Isaac’s timely arrival as an excuse to leave and walks away as quickly as he had lied.

 

* * *

 

 

Today’s the day that everything falls down around Stiles.

He gets a text from Jeremy telling him to meet him in their usual spot shortly after lunch. Stiles had spent the entire Saturday morning lazing around in bed.

Sure enough he finds Jeremy’s cruiser at the side of the road not too far from the outskirts of town.

“Evening, officer…” Stiles attempts a poorly done British accent. He leans into the open window and offers a wet kiss. It is reciprocated quickly before Jeremy nods at the passenger seat. “You know I’m always up for a booty call, but a police-issued car. How very naughty of you, sir.”

“Get in,” Jeremy rolls his eyes and nods at the seat again, causing Stiles to chuckle as he makes his way around to the passenger seat.

“So, what non-existent relative died this time? Have you even got any left? Because I’m pretty sure my dad must be getting at least a little suspicious now.”

“The bank called this time,” Jeremy smirks, starting the ignition. “Someone’s been using my card.”

“Oooh. Card fraud,” Stiles says in approvement. “Good one.”

“Your dad was very concerned. Gave me the afternoon to sort it out.”

“Convenient,” Stiles says, feeling only slightly ashamed that his actions had led someone else to manipulate his dad. “So what is it that we are _actually_ doing?”

“You wanted a date.” Jeremy says, pulling away.

“For real?” Stiles asks, doing a double-take towards Jeremy. “I thought we couldn’t risk it.”

“I like to live dangerously,” Jeremy answers and then as if to prove a point he turns on the sirens and lights, opening the throttle and speeding up. His dad would probably have a conniption if he knew. “Besides, my bank isn’t in Beacon Hills.”

They end up two towns over and for the most part actually do have a nice time. They have a late lunch that Jeremy pays for (Stiles ignores the fact that he orders for him). They go to a small arcade which was fun until he reminisces about going there as kids with Scott and Jeremy pulls him close and reminds him how he has him now. It would have ended relatively well (for their official first date outside of Beacon Hills… which Stiles had slowly started to suspect was becoming The Truman Show or his very own Chester’s Mill Dome) if he’d kept his token-freaking affection under wraps, but as it was, he didn’t and had bought both of themselves ice-creams. It results in both of them licking each other’s faces and which quickly morphs into more than a little wild kissing.

Only, when he pulls away to catch his breath, smiling widely and eyes crinkled in excitement, he sees a familiar red-head standing on the opposite side of the road. Her own eyes are opened wide and her mouth parted in a surprised ‘oh’ shape.

“Shit,” Stiles gasps, shoving Jeremy away.

“What?” Jeremy asks, looking over his shoulder, startled.

“I know her,” he tells him. “It’s Lydia.”

“Fuck…” Jeremy mutters. There’s already a gap, an obvious and abrupt distance, between them by the time Lydia marches across the road, bearing down on them.

“Lydia…” Stiles greets. He tries a casual smile on her, hoping calmness will throw her for a loop and question what she had thought she had just seen.

“Stiles,” Lydia greets, eyes squinting suspiciously at him, before turning a glare towards Jeremy.

“Lydia… this is Jeremy,” Stiles waves towards his boyfriend before nodding at Jeremy. “Jeremy… meet Lydia.”

“Lydia,” Jeremy greets, offering his hand to her. Stiles can plainly hear, as polite as he is, the tension in voice.

“Deputy…” Lydia responds, voice distinctly icy. She glances at the hand, choosing to ignore the offering, and continues to stare at him.

It’s not a surprise that Lydia knows who Jeremy is. Her mother religiously attended the town meetings which the local law-force occasionally went to, and as of late, with the frequent and supposed animal attacks that was used as a handy way of explaining anything unusual, his dad had made an effort for someone to be there as a representative if he, himself, couldn’t attend. Lydia could have spotted him at any time, especially if he was a pretty face.

Jeremy takes the frosty silence as an opportunity to move away further.

“I just realised there’s something I have to do at work,” he says, stepping away.

“I thought you said…”

“It’s important. I’m sure your friend can drop you at your car,” Jeremy says, stepping further away.

“Absolutely,” Lydia agrees, stepping into the gap and hooking her arm through his. “I’ll make sure he gets home safely.”

“But…” Stiles tries to protest.

“I’ll call you,” Jeremy promises him and is walking away before Stiles can protest further.

“Nice knowing you, deputy…” Lydia calls snootily to his back.

Stiles side-eyes her and frowns. Clearly Lydia hadn’t had a slip of the tongue.

“What the hell was that?” he asks her angrily, pulling his arm away from her harshly. “Nice _knowing_ you?”

“What do you mean ‘ _what the hell was that’_?” Lydia asks, waving her hands wildly in the direction Jeremy had gone. “What the _hell_ was _that_?”

“It wasn’t anything,” Stiles denies even though it’s obvious that it was.

Lydia just folds her arms across her chest and stares expectedly.

“It’s not what you think,” he tries instead.

“You were making out with him in the middle of the street,” Lydia responds dryly. “It’s clear now that the mystery girl is actually a guy. An older one…”

“He’s not that old.”

“Okay, how old is not that old? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”

“He just turned twenty-nine.”

“Jesus, Stiles…” Lydia unexpectedly explodes in front of him.

“Age is just a number,” Stiles laughs nervously. “It’s irrelevant.”

“Not when you’re a sixteen year old boy and he’s thirteen years older than you. And your dad’s deputy. For god’s sake, Stiles. What the hell were you thinking?”

“You can’t tell anyone you saw us, okay?” Stiles starts to panic.

“No,” She says, shaking her head, her red-hair whipping angrily around her. “You can’t put this burden on me.”

“You didn’t see anything. It was just a kiss.”

“You had sex with him,” Lydia points out.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters loudly, defeat evident in his voice. Why the hell deny anything when it’s completely and utterly clear what exactly has been happening. He steps back against a stone-brick wall and leans away from her.

“I take it you haven’t told anyone else?” she asks him.

Stiles shakes his head in response.

“Why?”

“Because we didn’t want this response,” he says tiredly, waving a hand at her. “Narrow-minded bigots who try and make it into something it’s not.”

“I’m neither narrow-minded nor a bigot,” Lydia tells him sourly. “I’m your friend.”

Stiles looks wearily at her, not knowing what to say. Sure, this last few months had been a little weird after the whole Jackson-kanima-key thing but there had been a few times when he and Lydia had a few intimate moments. He could hardly call it a friendship but there had been some… kinship between the two. Stiles had always put it down to the fact that Lydia was evidently _something_ and had some weird affinity towards the supernatural. And Stiles had always been drawn to her – not because of her popularity (less so now than the previous year) and her witty and sardonic disdain for others (although, secretly, he loved it) – to the atmosphere that surrounds her and the kinetic energy that came from it, with his own affinity towards her. An unknown anchor. A tether between the two.

Lydia would, most probably, always disagree.

“No one’s going to understand,” he tells her.

“Is that what he told you?”

“I’m seeing him, okay?” Stiles ignores her. “He’s my boyfriend. We’re in a relationship. He told me he loves me. I think I might even love him back.” He proceeds to kick the back of his heel against the wall. “Fuck,” he mutters again. “I finally get a date out of all this, go two fucking towns over and you have to show up…”

“You see? That right there?” she says, taking a step closer and jabbing him hard in the chest. “Having to go two towns over? That’s not a healthy relationship.”

“Oh please,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes and shoving her arm away and side-stepping past her. “Like you and Jackson are the poster-couple for relationships. If you are? Please kill me now.”

“And the fact that you haven’t even told Scott,” Lydia continues, pointedly ignoring his jibe.

“So?”

“So? Nothing about this doesn’t feel right?”

“You. Now. That’s kinda awkward,” Stiles flatly states.

“Has Jeremy told you to ditch your friends?” Lydia suddenly asks, right into his face.

“What? No! Why would you asks that?” Stiles suddenly splutters in response.

“Because it’s like you and Scott are not anymore,” Lydia says. He should probably be touched that she’s even noticed. “Scott told me you haven’t been going to practice either. He’s worried you’re going to quit. I don’t know, Stiles…” she says and Stiles has to take a step back because all of the sudden there’s that feeling again, that affinity, the electricity that’s between them. “It’s like we’re losing you and I don’t know if it’s because of Jeremy or not, I mean I sure as don’t know the man, but back then when he was here… _something_ didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right and this doesn’t feel right.”

Stiles doesn’t know if he should  feel terrified at Lydia’s semi-rant – because her eyes look more fiery and glassy than they did before and she’s breathing a little bit harder – or enraged at her.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” he tells her coldly instead, abruptly turning on his heel and walking away. “Fuck you.”

“Stiles,” she calls after him and then after a pause – “I thought you needed a ride.”

“I’ll make my own way,” he yells over his shoulder. He takes another step and then thinks _fuck_ before pacing back and forwards a few times, hands clutching at his newly grown-out hair, and groaning in frustrated despair. He straightens and turns to face her. She’s still looking a little wild-eyed, panting hard. “Just don’t tell, okay? I’ve never asked anything from you my entire life. Just do this one thing for me.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond or protest and walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles spends over an hour and eighty dollars for a taxi back to Beacon Hills. He spends another six hours waiting for a response to his multiple texts and calls to Jeremy, who still _hasn’t_ called. His dad’s already home and asleep on the couch and by the time eleven o’clock rolls around, the night air filled with dampness, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

He’s never actually been to Jeremy’s before, but they have passed it, so he knows where it is. By the time he gets there the downstairs lights are still on, giving an ominous glow to the front windows.

Stiles knocks on the front door with an urgent rap.

He sees the side of the curtain twitch slightly and a few seconds later the door opens.

“You didn’t call,” Stiles states, shivering against the cold and damp wind. He pulls his thin jacket around him tightly.

There’s a soft noise coming from further inside the apartment, the sound of muffled music, the slight clatter of a plate.

“You can’t be here…” Jeremy tells him, panic in his voice. He grabs Stiles by the arm and roughly pushes him, practically dragging him down the steps towards his jeep. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You didn’t call,” Stiles reminds him.

“Go home, Stiles…” Jeremy tells him, rolling his eyes and pushing him, again, towards his jeep.

“We need to talk,” Stiles protests.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jeremy tells him, pulling the driver’s side door open. “Don’t make a scene.”

“We. Need. To. Talk.” Stiles insists. He twists out of Jeremy’s hold and slams the jeep door shut. “We can’t ignore what just happened.”

“I don’t think you get it, Stiles…” Jeremy starts and Stiles is suddenly acutely aware at how ugly Jeremy’s voice sounds. “It was fun while it lasted. And that’s all it was. A little fun. It’s pretty much over now, anyway. It’s best we don’t acquaint ourselves together.”

Stiles stares at him in disbelief. He can’t believe Jeremy would refer to their relationship – a time he’d spent nearly three months falling hopelessly in love – as just a little _fun_. He knows that Jeremy is probably freaking out about Lydia. He does, after all, have a lot more to lose than Stiles.

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have insisted on going out. I’m sorry, okay?” Stiles apologises and then quickly tries to reassure him, reaching out a steadying hand and grasping Jeremy’s arm. “You don’t have to worry about Lydia. I don’t think she’ll say anything.”

Jeremy wrenches his arm away and sneers at him and Stiles starts to feel the solidarity and confidence he had sweep away from him.

“You’re a sixteen year old boy. Your crush means nothing to me.”

Stiles eyes widen in surprise.

No.

He let himself be intimate with this guy.

He fucking had sex with him.

He won’t let him dismiss the last few months as though it was nothing.

“Jeremy…”

“You mean nothing to me,” Jeremy spits at him, shoving him hard into the side of the jeep. “I won’t let you ruin me.”

“I thought you loved me,” Stiles says. He won’t fall to his knees and beg – no, he’s too winded for that – but he can already feel his eyes start to sting and his lips tremble.

“You’re a sixteen year old who likes to put out. I wanted an easy lay. What does that make you?”

Stiles is left leaning against the side of the jeep long after Jeremy disappears inside. The sky’s already opened and he’s being pelted with big fat raindrops that soak heavily into his clothes, soaking his skin. He rubs at his face, wiping what he thinks might be actual tears away.

He doesn’t know how to classify this.

He’s been dumped?

He’s been fucking stupid?

He’s a slut?

Lydia _fucking_ Martin happened?

All of the above?

All he knows is he now is truly one hundred per cent alone and fucking soaked to the bone. Of course, that’s when he gets _the_ text. It’s from an unknown number and has a picture attached to it, and he frowns at the words, waiting for the picture to load.

 

_[IT’S GONE VIRAL]_

 

 

That’s when he sees it. The picture.

It’s clearly of him and Jeremy (although, only the back of his head) on the night Stiles’ lost his virginity.  In fact, it’s _EXACTLY_ that moment, Stiles naked in his entirety being fucked into oblivion over the Sheriff’s desk.

Fuck his life

He sucks in a shuddering breath, looking around him, body moving sporadically. He’s bordering a full-blown panic attack, hands shaking, body thrumming, chest tightening and heart hurting but he won’t let it happen here and he can’t go home. Not now.

He fumbles his way into the jeep, a sob escaping his chest, hands shakily turning the ignition and heads to the one place he never expected he’d go in times of trouble.

 

* * *

 

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is seduced by someone older, someone in a position of authority. Someone, who not only Beacon Hills, but the Sheriff himself, trusts. If that's not enough, it's becoming clear that he's also dealing with a possible stalker. Out of everyone it stands to reason it would be his most recent ill-fated lover, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this seriously took two solid days of writing, copious amounts of tea and minimal toilet breaks. And this entire story stems from the a) fight scene and b) Peter's 'little red' reference. It snow-balled from there.
> 
> And yes - it's totally longer than I expected - on the account that somewhere down the line (really, just an excuse for 'making shit up along the way' it's fallen squarely into stalkery/murderous/blood-spilling horror - but for that part you'll have to wait for the final chapter.
> 
> Anyway - I hope you're still enjoying it.

_Chapter 3_

 

Derek’s spent most of the day doing refurbishments on the house. It’s now dark and wet, and very firmly into the night, and he sits heavily staring into the old blueprints he had managed to acquire, while feeling somewhat disheartened at how much he _hadn’t_ been able to do. He was fully aware that what was left of the house was probably a structural nightmare but he had every intention of righting every wrong that happened to it. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time nor the money, thanks to the family inheritance and how it was gaining interest every day.

Right now, though, he felt restless. He had felt it all day, kind of fuelling the sweaty work he’d thrown himself into, and now that his energy was fading, it felt itchy just under his skin. Like he should be moving. Or do something. But he doesn’t know what exactly.

By the look of Peter, who had annoyingly been present for the latter part of the day, he felt the same too. Derek watches him sigh loudly, moving around the room with a coffee in his hand, until he eventually heads out the front door and settles on the porch.

Derek hears the familiar sound of the jeep before it even makes its way up the dirt-road to the house.  The restless feeling suddenly ricochets and panic hits him squarely in the chest.

“Derek…” he hears Peter’s own worried voice, from the porch, even as he lurches to his feet. “Something’s wrong.”

Derek flies though the front door before the Jeep even rolls to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he barks, looking wildly around for any sign of immediate danger.

Stiles is halfway between the jeep and the porch steps before he comes to a stop and just stares at Derek and Peter. Derek can clearly make out red-rimmed eyes and the distinctive taste of salty-tears against his lips. It’s still pouring and Stiles is already soaking wet in just jeans and a red hoodie.

“I…” Stiles starts, voice cracking and shaky. He shivers forcefully. “I didn’t know where to go.”

It’s only now, that Derek realises a little belatedly, that he hasn’t seen Stiles in weeks. In fact the last time he had come up in conversation was when Scott had angrily stormed into the loft after some argument he had with Stiles that had something to do with him ‘ _lying’_ to him about who he was having sex with. At that point Derek had tuned him out because ‘too.much.information’. He really didn’t need to know about Stiles sex-life.

“You’re soaking,” Derek observes.

“It’s raining…” Stiles states, wrapping his arms around him and hunching in on himself.”

“No shit…” Derek says, rolling his eyes as he sees another violent shiver flutter through his smaller frame. It might indeed be raining, but Derek can still differentiate between the huge raindrops hitting Stiles all-too pale skin and the fat tears that suddenly escape his eyes. “For fuck-sake, Stiles. Get inside before you drown yourself in your clothes,” he mutters, taking the few remaining steps between the porch and the shivering teen, and grabbing him roughly by the arm.

Stiles doesn’t protest – a sure sign that something was amiss – and lets him manhandle him roughly into the house, dumping him onto the couch.

He ends up wrapped up in a blanket, admittedly a bit dusty, but it helps to abide some of the tremors.

“So?” Derek finally asks, after Peter surprisingly felt compelled to cluck around him and push a steaming coffee into his hands.

“I fucked up,” Stiles mutters bitterly after putting the coffee on his makeshift table, just shy of the blueprints, and hides his face into his hands. “I fucked up big time.”

“Okay,” Derek says, trying for encouragement. Patience was never one of his skills. “How?”

“Hmm…” Stiles shrugs, looks around blearily with wet eyes. “I think I’ve just been dumped,” he continues, shaking his head. “No, I’ve definitely been dumped. And it sucks by the way.”

Derek and Peter exchange bemused glances until Peter shrugs and gestures for Derek to do something.

“Why’d you come here?” Derek asks, clearly confused.

“Because I can’t go home,” Stiles says bitterly, hunkering down into the blanket. Derek hears a faint chime – the fourth since Stiles had arrived – from under the blanket, alerting them to a text. “Probably doesn’t matter anyway. By now everyone probably knows.”

“That you’ve been dumped?” Peter scoffs, leaning against the door frame. “Hardly. It’s a milestone, dear-boy. In fact it’s time for congratulations. Before long you’ll be back in the saddle.”

Stiles peers at him from his blanket and shakes his head muttering something under his breath. His phone suddenly bursts into life, blaring out with a ridiculous (and ever-changing ring-tone), causing Stiles to jump and startle.

Even now, Derek can hear the stuttering to his heart – the misfires to the beat – and the way he took in the occasional shuddering breath in a weak attempt to keep an obvious panic attack at bay.

“You going to get that?” he asks, when the phone rings a second time, watching as Stiles glances at it before discarding it to the side of him.

“It’s just my dad,” Stiles murmurs, avoiding eye-contact. “I can’t talk to him right now.”

It’s obvious now, phone calls aside, that Stiles is also avoiding all the texts coming through.

“What else is going on, Stiles?” he asks, scrutinising the huddled form.

“Nothing?” Stiles tries and then huffs – “Isn’t getting dumped enough?”

He’s about to call him on his bull-shit when his own phone alerts him to a text but before he can even dig it out of his pocket Stiles shouts “Don’t read it.”

“It’s just from Scott,” Derek says, waving it in the air between them. Instead of reading the text he places the phone on the table, and gives Stiles one of his most firm-est looks he can muster (because despite his misgivings he does actually feel worried, at this moment in time). “What’s going on, Stiles?”

“Noth-ING,” Stiles tries to insist, but the weak attempt at stubbornness is ruined by the quivering chin. Stiles phone chimes again – for the fifth time now – and he grabs at it in a sudden rage. “SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP!”. He tries to launch it across the room but Derek effortlessly springs up and catches it mid-flight.

He forgoes his own phone to bring up all of Stiles text alerts. Some were from a range of different numbers. Some from unknown senders. Derek can see that he had at least a further twenty before he even arrived at the house.

“No,” Stiles protests, blanching. He tries to make a grab for the phone but Derek easily holds him back. “Don’t…”

Derek opens the most recent text. It takes him a second to realise what he’s seeing and when he does he just lets go of the wildly resisting Stiles who suddenly locks eyes with him, despair and terror clearly evident in them. Defeated, Stiles sinks heavily back into the couch, while Peter slides over and glances at the picture over his shoulder.

“Oh my,” Peter rather politely states.

“What is this?” Derek asks, shaking the phone at him. Despite the emotional wreck Stiles has got himself into he clearly still has some hold on his usual sarcasm because he simply raises an eyebrow.

“Really?” Peter is the one to answer. “Do we need to have the birds and bees talk again?”

“It me,” Stiles says miserably. “Having sex. On my dad’s desk. In his office. At the station. With his deputy.”

Even Peter blanches at that.

“What?” Derek asks again, sounding stupid to his own ears. He suddenly remembers Stiles insisting he smelt him to see if the new deputy was werewolf or not and knows now why Scott had been so worried.

“How old is he?” Peter finally asks. Which probably should be what he should be asking instead of being completely stunned into silence. He remembers how Kate had encroached into his life. How he’d fallen headfirst into a malevolent and insidious relationship, none the wiser, caught up in the throes of first love and passion.

“Twenty-nine,” Stiles says firmly, daring him to challenge him. “Age is irrelevant. Besides you’re the creepiest creeper out there, so you don’t get to judge.”

“I can very honestly say I have never thought of having sex with anyone below the age of 21,” Peter says, clearly offended. “And I would never dream of having sex with someone _under age,_ ” he says, shaking his head. “Despite what you think,” he mumbles under his breath – to Derek it’s clear and loud – but by the look on Stiles enraged face he had caught the tail end of it too. “You’re just a boy.”

“I’m old enough to know what I want,” Stiles says, angrily raising from the couch. “He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to. It doesn’t matter now, does it? He dumped me. So that’s it. End of story.”

“Because of this?” Derek asks, waving the phone in front of his face.

“What? No…” Stiles snaps, snatching it out of his hands. “I don’t think so. Lydia saw us and he freaked.”

“Could he have sent it?” Derek asks.

“No,” Stiles vehemently shakes his head. “What would he achieve by announcing to the world he was having sex with the sheriff’s son? Not the brightest move.”

“Having sex with the sheriff’s son wasn’t the brightest idea in the first place,” Derek rocks back on his heel and studies him further. “This is such a mess…” he says quietly.

“Yeah, that’s me –“ Stiles exclaims brightly, almost bordering on hysterical. “I’m a mess. Dead mom, recovering alcoholic for a father, seen more dead-bodies than should be accountable for, kidnapped twice, tortured once, held hostage and you know… werewolves. What’s a bit of sexy-time with the deputy?”

“Sit down,” Derek orders him.

“You giving me orders now?” Stiles glares at him. “I’m not one of your beta’s, Derek.”

“Sit down,” Derek repeats and shoves at him none-too gently.

“I’ll give you some space…” Peter announces and drifts from the room.

They watch him leave and when he’s finally disappeared out of sight Stiles shifts his gaze back to him. “What?” he growls at him.

“You do realise it’s wrong, right?” Derek tries to question him gently, seeing a reflection of his past being laid out in front of him. There might not be a dead family as a result but the consequences seem just as devastating.

“We’ve been seeing each other for the last few months. Normally it was just making out. Hot… steamy… making out…” Stiles says distractedly. He’s not sure how to take Stiles reaction right now – head down, playing with the hem of his sleeve – but at least he wasn’t crying anymore. “We had sex just the once.”

“You’re sixteen, Stiles…” Derek attempts, staring worriedly across the table. He wonders how he would have reacted if someone had tried to have this conversation with him before the fire. Before he knew what Kate was really like. “And he’s twenty-nine. You know it’s not right?”

“If this was Scott…” Stiles answers instead, finally looking up and staring him in the eye. “Or any one of you little werewolf minions, you wouldn’t be saying this. You do realise Scott and Allison have been at it for most of the past year. And I’m pretty sure Lydia and Jackson have been doing it longer than that.”

“None of them have a sexual partner who’s nearly twice their age,” Derek states. Throughout everything that’s happened since he came back – Scott getting bitten, Peter losing it and killing a lot of people, the Kanima, Gerard… he’d forgotten how young everyone was. “And maybe I’m only just figuring out that your still only kids.”

“I’m not…” Stiles starts and then shakes his head, because he probably realises he’s about to sound like a cliché. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?” Derek asks and then leans back into his own chair. “Can you honestly say something didn’t feel right?”

Stiles refuses to answer and goes back to playing with his sleeve. His phone rings again and Stiles, this time, ends it before it can ring any further.

“You know you can’t avoid your dad any longer.”

“I know,” Stiles says quietly. He rubs at his eyes tiredly and then sighs loudly. “I just needed some time before I faced him.”

Derek nods and then gestures for him to stand.

“C’mon…” he says. “I’ll drive you.”

He half expects Stiles to protest or insist on driving himself so it was a testament to how reluctant he was to go home that he obediently follows him. When he’s close enough Derek hesitatingly plants his hand on his shoulder to lead him out.

“Wait…” Peter calls from behind, brandishing what looks like a red rain-mac. Derek vaguely recognises it and wonders how it has survived this long, let alone the fire, but then remembers Peter had helped his dad move some of their old stuff into storage some time before the fire had occurred. Peter reaches them and insists on Stiles wearing it since he’s sans jacket. Stiles dazedly allows him to slip it on. “For you little red.”

Derek actually gets a call from Scott halfway between the house and the jeep, half out of his  mind with worry and saying something along the lines of _‘Stiles is missing’_.

“Don’t worry. He’s with me. I’m taking him home.”

 

* * *

 

 

 When they finally arrive home Stiles can see his dad’s cruiser on the drive. He also recognises Lydia’s own car sitting out front in the street.

He’s reluctant to enter, but Derek gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze (he probably doesn’t have time to think that this is the most tactile Derek has ever been – apart from the slamming of him into hard, unmoving objects – and maybe he should be grateful he’s got a hulking alpha at his side) which propels him to quietly enter.

His dad is sat at their dining room table. Lydia is sat across from him. Both their phones lay on the table between them.

He clears his throat causing his dad to look up suddenly, surprised.

“Stiles…” his dad says, clearly not knowing what to say. “I tried ringing you.”

“I know,” Stiles says, fiddling with his house-keys. “I didn’t want to talk.”

Derek slides in to the room beside him and he sees his dad eyes shift to the side and then back again.

“What’s he doing here?”

Stiles shrugs and moves further into the room, eying Lydia as he does. Her eyes look bright and damp and he wonders if she’s been crying.

“Stiles told me what happened,” Derek interjects quietly. “I thought it was best I drive him back.”

“Okay…” his dad says slowly, eyes darting between Stiles and Derek, obviously trying to figure out if he should be dragging his son away from the brooding Hale in leather.

“This all your fault,” Stiles quietly says towards the red-headed girl, ignoring the exchange.

“What?” Lydia whispers, mouth parted slightly in shock.

“Stiles…” his dad warns, stepping up into the gap and clasping a hand to his shoulder.

“No,” he says, wrenching his arm free and whirling on them. He jabs a finger in the general direction of her. “He dumped me because of you. You… you ruined everything.”

Lydia shakes her head vigorously and jumps up from the table.

“Stiles…” she starts. “Please…”

He knows it’s the most ridiculous thing to think, not least say it out loud, but he does it all the same. “Was this you?” he asks, waving the phone at her.

“What? No, of course not…” Lydia says, incensed.

“Right,” Stiles scoffs, nodding his head towards the phones on the table. “I bet your loving this, all the drama.”

Lydia’s face turns stony cold.

“I didn’t say anything,” she harshly whispers at him. “But then I got the picture and came here. But your dad was here and somebody had already sent him the text.”

Stiles refuses to acknowledge her or the way his dad is staring concernedly at him and decides to burn a hole into the side of the wall instead.

“Do you think he’d still be with you if he knew about this? Because If I hadn’t seen you two then I’m positive you’d still be dumped when he gets a whiff of this.”

“I fucking hate you Lydia,” Stiles tells her instead and shoves past them all, heading to the stairs, ignoring his dad’s calls or the way Lydia’s mouth quivers and her eyes fill with tears.

Lydia tries to follow him but Derek interjects and grasps her arm.

She tries to shake him off but he keeps a firm hold and quietly tells her - _“He’s just upset, he doesn’t mean it,”_ and _“give him some space. He and his dad need to talk.”_

His dad is following him up the stairs, even as Derek is manhandling the protesting Lydia out under the pretence that he actually needed a ride home (and couldn’t use his werewolfery ass to run all the way back home), and finally catches up with him a few steps from the top.

“That girl has done nothing to you,” his dad tells him disapprovingly, catching his arm again.

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters. He pulls away and takes another step.

“Are we going to talk about this?” his dad asks. By the tone of voice, the obvious flush to his cheeks, and the fact that Stiles, himself, was now not being distracted by the presence of Lydia, he could see his dad was actually starting to get a little mad.

“No.”

“Stiles…”

 “We had sex just the once. It’s over now.”

“You’re sixteen,” his dad raises his voice and Stiles flinches away from him. “And he’s nearly thirty. Do you realise that’s statuary rape? I had him over here for god’s sake. I practically invited him here.”

“I loved him,” Stiles says, finally reaching his door. “We had sex. I wanted to.” He turns and faces his dad. “My life is officially ruined and if you do anything to him I’ll never forgive you.”

He pushes into his room in an undignified flail and slams the door in his father’s face.

He ends up on his bed in tears, screaming in frustration when his phone bleeps at him again. He throws it across his room, only Derek isn’t there to catch it this time, and it clatters against the wall before skittering across the floor.

It bleeps at him again only a second later, mocking him, and he screams a little bit more.

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t be leaving Stiles home alone right now, but once Stiles confirms what his eyes had been disbelieving, he grabs his service weapon, jumps in the cruiser and heads over to Shepton’s place.

Jeremy doesn’t look surprised to see him.

“Sheriff,” he starts, hands out in placating gesture, voice smooth and calm. “I don’t know what Stiles has told you, but…”

“That you’ve had sex,” John says flatly, standing on the steps in front of his house. “That you’re in love.”

Jeremy shakes his head and sighs, standing aside to let him in. John follows him into the small lounge off to the side.

“Well…” John asks impatiently, desperate to grab his gun and pistol-whip the slimy shit-head.

“Look… I like him, I do. But I promise you, John. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? Huh?” John asks, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “How’d you explain this then, Shepton?”

He watches Jeremy’s face, the shocked look, the clammy-ness that slowly appears, the audible gulp as he painfully swallows.

“Because to me it looks like you’re fucking my underage kid.”

He can see the change almost immediately. It’s palpable. The deputy he thought he knew – charming and trusting – was gone, probably deciding the game was up so why bother, and in its place was a leering and jeering face.

“He practically threw himself at me,” he sneers. “What’s a guy to do when he’s practically crawling into my lap?”

“Shut the fuck up,” John yells. He has him shoved up against the wall within seconds, gun planted firmly against the side of his face. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“John…”  a voice warns from the doorway.

A quick glance up reveals Chris Argent standing there.

“What are you doing here?” he grunts at him.

“Allison called me. Told me what happened,” Chris tells him. “I figured you might come here.”

“This has nothing to do with you. Leave.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Chris says, stepping closer but remaining just shy of reaching either of them. “You’re the father of my daughter’s friend. This has everything to do with me. This has everything to do with anyone remotely close to Stiles,” he says this last bit while pointedly staring at Jeremy.

“You heard him,” Jeremy shrugs against him, the tip of the gun moving with him. “You’re the sheriff. You’re not going to shoot me.”

“He’s not going to shoot you because of Stiles,” Chris points out and then clasps a hand lightly against John’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, John?”

John doesn’t answer him but he does step back and allow Chris to take the gun from his shaking hand.

“Don’t think your welcome here,” Chris tells Jeremy.

John leaves with Chris but not before telling him to stay away from the station and Stiles.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing he hears when he gets back is crying.

It’s loud and broken and absolutely heart-wrenching to hear.

He heads up the stairs tiredly, all set to push aside the need to shout and scream at his son, and be the best God-damn father he could be.

When gets to the landing though he sees that Stiles door is now wide open and Scott is sat on the bed, one leg outstretched in front of him. Stiles is curled into a little ball at his side, crying into the gap between his plaid shirt and the curl of his arm.

The last time he had seen either of them like this was a few weeks after Claudia had died and he and Melissa had found them in Scott’s room. He’d ended up leaving them until Stiles had cried himself into exhaustion and had let himself be picked up, curling into his dad’s chest and allowing Melissa to drive them home.

He wasn’t sure, this time though, that Stiles would allow the same gesture.

Scott whispers something down to Stiles stooped head and rubs his arm reassuringly. He lifts his head and nods at him, a small, fleeting, sad smile briefly touching his lips before he turns his attention back to the huddled form at his side.

John leaves them in the room together, toes his boots off outside his own room and heads back down to the kitchen where he immediately takes a drink of the strongest alcohol he has.

Scott joins him just short of an hour later.

“Hey,” he greets.

“How is he?” John asks, registering the pained look on the younger boys face.

“Asleep,” Scott answers with a shrug. He sits at the chair that the Martin girl had sat at earlier. “I’m sorry, Sir. If had realised I would have said something. I knew something wasn’t right. I had my suspicions, but Stiles lied to me. More than once.”

“Nothing new there,” John says ruefully, taking a sip from his drink. “I don’t know what happened exactly. Shepton didn’t give me much, except for a few unsavoury words about Stiles.”

“You went there?”

John nods and then winces as the alcohol burns his throat.

“Well, I’m not surprised…” Scott fumes next to him and then darts a look across the table, worriedly. “Wait, you didn’t do anything did you?”

“I didn’t really get a chance. Chris Argent turned up.”

“Right. Allison mentioned something about telling her dad. I guess she was worried you might do something,” Scott says, flexing his hand across the table. “I wouldn’t blame you. In fact I know what I’d so if I see him…”

John watches as Scott curls his hand into a fist, turning his head away, the wonky side of his jaw pulsating with tension.

“Hey,” John reaches across the table and plants his hand over the fist, uncurling it to reveal small bloody welts across his palm. “Don’t do anything stupid, Scott. Stiles needs us.”

Scott quickly pulls his hand back out of reach.

“I knew something was off for months. I just couldn’t get much out of him,” Scott admits. “He’d been so distant. Avoiding everyone. He made out that were going different places. Did you know he’s thinking of quitting Lacrosse?”

“I didn’t,” John shakes his head, feeling ashamed. Where the hell has he been through all this? How did he not see any of it? “If this is how I think it is, in most cases the younger person is manipulated into doing things, avoiding things, and comes away thinking it was all their decision.”

“You think that’s what happened?”

John shrugs and stares at the open bottle in front of him.

“I’ve not always been there for him,” he says, more to himself than Scott.

“Neither have I,” Scott admits. “Not lately, anyway.”

“Well,” John says, recapping the bottle and pushing it away. “Maybe it’s time to change that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles ends up staying off school for the rest of the week. He mostly holds up in his room and attempts to avoid his father, only the shit-head-do-gooders in his life call time on his self-imposed exile and stage an intervention, resulting in his dad sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Hey, kiddo…” his dad says, resting a hand on his arm. “You think you can come down stairs. Derek and Scott are here.”

Stiles raises a weary eyebrow and actually drags his ass out of bed – although this was more to do with the panic that they might be about to reveal their werewolf-selves – than any other reason.

When gets down there, in all his baggy, over-sized shirt and crumped track-suit bottoms glory, he sees both Scott and Derek wince at the obvious state he’s in. He knows his clothes have seen better days, that he’s on the too pale side, and may possibly be a bit funky-smelling, but there’s no need to be rude.

As it turns out all three (– and he’s rather surprised that Mrs McCall wasn’t there considering she’d been a frequent visitor to his room over the last few days, checking for any generalised ill health or dehydration. There wasn’t, apparently, but she still clucked over him and forced him to eat the occasional sandwich –) want to discuss _him_ and how he now feels about Jeremy.

For the most part Stiles just shrugs through their questioning, purposely avoiding his dad’s worried gaze and mutters “It’s over. There’s nothing to discuss.”

He’s more than a little surprised when Derek asks Scott and Stiles to give them a moment and even more surprised when his dad actually agrees.

“Has he tried to call you?”

Stiles shakes his head and looks down at his hands, playing with a rough part of his cuticle.

“You don’t think that’s a bit odd?”

Stiles shrugs, fiddling further.

“How do you feel about it?”

Stiles shrugs again, lifts his head a little with a wry grin, trying for nonchalance. “It’s over. It doesn’t matter.” He deliberately doesn’t tell Derek that he had tried calling Jeremy, several times in fact, only to get _‘this number is no longer in service’_ or how it stung him each and every time.

“Did your dad tell you how Kate Argent was able to burn my house down and kill my family?”

Well… this was _unexpected…_

“She’s an Argent,” Stiles says with a shrug, not knowing where Derek was heading with the abrupt change of topics. “She had an arsenal of Hunters at hand who all hated you. He didn’t have to explain anything.”

“No,” Derek shakes his head and Stiles stops trying to be stubbornly resistant and stills his movements because this actually looks painful for Derek to say out loud and for a moment he’s sure Derek’s trapped in his head. “I mean how I let Kate into their lives.”

Stiles shakes his head and then Derek spends a great deal, of painstakingly time, going into detail how Kate Argent had seduced Derek and wormed her way into the life of an already vulnerable and wounded boy, and had then proceeded to rip his life to shreds. He’s a little sketchy on the actual details of the fire but Stiles always figured it wouldn’t take much to kill anyone, even unaware werewolves, with a shit-load of gasoline thrown into the basement.

“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles tells him weakly, feeling nauseated. “Jeremy didn’t kill anyone.”

“He might not have killed anyone, Stiles…” Derek says, a serious face firmly plastered across him. “But he still hurt you. And If I was you I’d be absolutely fuming that the man I’m supposed to be in love with has left me to pick up all the pieces of my life.”

Stiles doesn’t have an answer to that.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles decides to return to school the next week, despite his father’s worry and misgivings, but even though he too is worried he doesn’t think he can take another day of being home with nothing but his own unfocused brain as company. At least at school he could distract himself with the various mundane things it had to offer. And he was sure, he thinks with sardonic amusement, a lot of time would be taken up with trying not to be bothered by everyone’s reactions.

He wonders if he’d be able to pull off Lydia’s unaffected indifference.

As to be expected, when he arrives, there’s surprised looks, murmurs and whispers but then Scott’s there and ushering him away and he’s soon cocooned with the presence of Allison, Erica and Boyd. Even Isaac comes along and although they’ve never particularly got on, Isaac always seem to come through for someone when it came to the crunch.

He’s still occasionally receiving the odd text here or there – they had notably dried up since someone from the station had warned the school that any traced numbers would result in arrests and a criminal record – and he gets a comment alluding to some sort of lewd act he’s never heard of that riles him a bit too much and results in him taking a breather in a toilet stool. Only someone, at some point, over the last week has written **STILES STILINSKI IS A SLUT. CALL FOR A GOOD TIME** with his _actual_ number. He spends most of his next class trying to get the week old writing off the wall and checking all the other toilets and stools for any other comments before making an appearance with a flimsy excuse.

“Hey,” Scott nudges him when he sits down. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles answers with a watery smile. “Just need some time alone’”.

He’s taken to having his lunches out on the green in front of the school, picking at his lunch, and avoiding any unwanted stares.

He’s joined by most of the pack, Jackson and Lydia thankfully missing (he plainly and obviously always takes the seat at least two rows back from her in class each and every time) who sit with him while he leans against the overbearing tree that he’s hidden under.

“You don’t have to sit out here,” Stiles tells them on the Tuesday.

“We’re your friends,” Allison says, squeezing his hand and pushing his sandwich closer to him.

“I’ll go inside if you want,” he tells them, lurching to his feet, using the tree to support him.

“Sit down, Stiles…” Erica snaps at him. “I don’t want to sit with those morons anyway.”

He slides back down and catches the small grin she offers him. He shakes his head at her, snagging one of Scott’s fries – ignoring Scott’s weak protest – and flings it at her head. It would have been a total bulls-eye but she throws a complete curveball and catches it between her teeth.

“Hey, no fair…” Stiles finds himself, surprisingly, laughing. “No werewolf powers.”

Things were no way normal but at least some things were.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the Wednesday of the week Stiles had returned to School. John had contacted his ex-colleague – now a chief in his own department to find out the real reason Shepton had transferred was due to an ill-advised and underage affair with the chief’s daughter. It had been kept quiet and hushed up because the chief was newly appointed and had believed the scandal could reflect badly on his career and department.

_“I thought he might okay there. I didn’t know he was into guys as well…”_

_“Children, Andy. Children…”_

_“I never thought of Stiles. John, I’m so sorry…”_

In all that time since things had come to everyone’s attention and now, John had not heard or seen Shepton and had hoped he had taken his word and left.

The events that unfold next tell him otherwise.

There’s a commotion somewhere outside his office and he rises to his feet.

Tara pushes herself in, face pinched and tense, and quickly closes the door.

“I want you to stay calm. Promise me you’ll stay calm.”

“What’s going on?”

“Shepton’s come in for a shift,” she tells him worriedly, peering out through the blinds. “He’s in his uniform. Drunk as a skunk.”

“What?!” John seethes and then proceeds to push past the young woman.

“Don’t do anything stupid, John…” Tara tries to appease him. “Let the others remove him from the station.”

He marches past her and stops in front of the desk that Shepton once sat at, ignoring – Regina – who was discreetly trying to shoo him to the door.

“You can’t be here,” John flatly states, watching as Jeremy tries to drunkenly rearrange the stationary on his desk.

“Hey, Sheriff…” Jeremy slurs at him, abandoning the stack of paperclips to look up at him. He shakes his head and grins toothily. “You can’t fire me.”

“You can’t be here,” John repeats more firmly, feeling the words hiss at the back of his teeth. “By now you should have received a letter informing you of your suspension with an investigation pending.”

“Got back this morning” he says, pulling a rumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “You. Can’t. Fire. Me…” Jeremy repeats. He stands up and leans across the table, the breath of each word, mingled in booze, hitting him harshly in the face. “Conflict of interest.”

“You’re under investigation for statuary rape, Jeremy…” Tara states, edging around the table and roughly pulling him away. “You can’t be here. Leave before someone claps a pair of cuffs on you and throws you in the cells. Go home and sleep it off.”

“Just because you asked so nicely, Tara baby…” Jeremy leers, stumbling into her.

“Leave already,” she tells him, shoving him away with distaste.

“Just so you know…” John calls after him, watching as Jeremy looks back. “I spoke to your old Chief. He told me everything. You won’t be able to move on again so easily. Your career is affectively over.”

Jeremy shrugs, flicks him the bird, and staggers out of the door.

“John…” Tara says as soon as the door swings close, clasping his arm

“Call the school,” John tiredly sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell them Shepton’s still around. Maybe get a patrol car there just in case.”

Tara nods, speaks to a couple of deputies who nod, speaking into their radio before heading out towards the side door, and ambles back over to him.

“Stiles will be okay,” she tells him with a reassuring voice. “We’ve all got his back.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is halfway through Harris’ class (whose surprisingly been laying off him the last few days – or not considering the events of late) when he realises Scott seems to be wigging out next to him. Jackson looks over wearily at them, picking up on the funny sensation.

“Dude?” Stiles whispers, nudging him. “What’s with you?”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Scott mutters beside him. He suddenly stiffens and inhales loudly, causing Harris to look over in disgust. “We need to go,” Scott tells him and then roughly grabs him by the tip of his hoodie, dragging him from his stool.

“Hey…” Stiles protests, twisting in the grip.

“McCall? What are you doing?” Harris asks.

Whatever he’s doing becomes abundantly clear when Jeremy suddenly barrels through the door, and Stiles stills in Scott’s grip, mouth opening in shock. If there was any hope that he was here to whisk him away soon flies away when he suddenly charges at them, and even with Scott’s acute senses, swinging out with a sharp undercut and hitting Stiles right in the face.

The hit throws Stiles out of Scott’s hold and leaves him sprawled across the floor. He scrambles back when he realises Jeremy’s coming at him again, hard-toed boot going in for a kick, and leaving him nowhere to go but further into the edge of the wall.

Scott’s immediately between them, swinging back, and it becomes clear, even in Stiles befuddled state, that he’s about to wolf-out. Jackson quickly shoves in between the two, doing some rather superb launch over a table, and is quickly followed by Danny. Jackson pushes Scott back towards him. “See to Stiles. I’ve got this.”

“Hey, Look at me Stiles…” Scott says when he drops down by his side. Stiles refuses to look away, watching Jeremy struggle against them. “You’re okay. You’re alright.”

Stiles marvels at how in control Jackson is, and the fact that Harris is there too, pushing and shoving to keep him away from Stiles. Maybe the punch knocked something off-centre and maybe Scott had _actually_ wolfed out. Maybe Jackson was showing everyone how fugly he looks as a werewolf. Maybe Harris was dancing around in glee.

“You come into MY classroom and assault one of MY students…” Harris enraged voice floats around him.

“Twilight zone…” Stiles whispers and then giggles deep within his chest.

“Stiles?” Scott asks worriedly, pulling him further into his side.

Harris calls upon one of the other students to hightail it to the office and get security and the police.

Jeremy pushes out of a hold, yelling something about being fired. “You’ve ruined my life,” he spits out and attempts to kick at the soles of Stiles feet. “Now I’m going to fucking ruin yours.”

Stiles flinches against Scott and digs a hand into his arm to keep him rooted there.

“Stay the fuck away from him,” Danny snarls, shoving him further away towards the door.

Jackson turns bright-eyes towards them and Stiles panics, shaking his head, because Jackson eyes flare up, lighting briefly with a sharp blue. He must get it, because he lets Danny and Harris take over, eyes dulling as he slides down the wall and pants heavily.

Isaac and Allison turn up (probably alerted by the sudden panic Isaac would have no doubt felt) – Erica and Boyd most probably not too far behind – while Danny and Harris are manhandling Jeremy out through the classroom door, all wild-eyed and ready for a fight.

Lydia, who’s remained quiet throughout it all, suddenly appears crouched in front of his splayed legs and gently touches his knee.

“Stiles?”

“Get off me,” he suddenly yells, flinching violently against the light touch. “Just stay the fuck away from me.”

Her eyes fill with tears and he watches as Jackson pulls her away and out of the room.

Harris files everyone out of the room only a few minutes later and soon it’s only Stiles and Scott left huddled in the corner of the room, away from prying eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

He remains quiet for most of the ride home, looking out of the passenger window of the cruiser. He’s half expected his dad to come charging in the room and hug him stupidly, but they haven’t done that in a while, and his dad had simply placed a hand at the back of his neck and squeezed it warmly. Despite the obvious tension still between them, Stiles still sighs and leans against it, missing the days when it was okay to want have a cuddle with your dad.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you see it now?”

“Can I see what now?”

“That he didn’t really love you?” his dad asks. “If he did he wouldn’t have come here and hit you.”

“He was drunk,” Stiles notes out loud.

“Don’t justify what he did, kid…” his dad insists, winding his fingers around the wheel. “He came to your school and attacked you in front of witnesses. Threatened you. That’s not the mind of a sane person.”

“You’re saying he’s crazy?” Stiles asks, lifting his head. “For liking me?”

“I never said that,” his dad turns sharp eyes at him. “Don’t put words in my mouth. It’s not an excuse either. So don’t think it is. I’m just worried you went into something without seeing the bigger picture.”

“It’s over,” Stiles says flatly, leaning his head back against the window. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.”

“We both did,” his dad’s voice reaches him a second before he feels a hand grasp the back of his neck again.

He feigns sleep while his dad keeps a firm hand at the base of his skull.

 

* * *

 

 Lydia does indeed stay from him.

In fact she stays away from school entirely for the remainder of the week.

And Stiles can’t help but feel more than a little lost.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey,” Danny catches up with him on his way back from the store, forgoing the jeep for a brisk walk.

It’s near dark and mostly quiet so he’s been able to buy the few items he needed without obtaining too much unwanted attention.

“Hey,” Stiles greets him with a small nod, pulling his ear-phones from his ear. “You’re a bit out of your way.”

Danny’s decked out in a bunch of sporty-gear – the obvious tell-tale sign of sweat adorning the front of his shirt – an Ipod neatly nestled against his arm.

“On my way to Jackson’s. Thought I’d jog my way there.”

“How very healthy of you…” Stiles says, looking down at the full-creamed, full-fat nourishments he had nestled in his paper bag and not feeling the slightest bit guilty about it.

“You okay?”

“Been better,” Stiles shrugs and then grins at Danny, albeit thin and tight against his face.

“You want to talk?”

“Right now?” Stiles asks, eyeing the sweaty patch across Danny’s chest.

“Whenever,” Danny shrugs. “If you want.”

“I’m okay,” he says, side-stepping around him. “I’ll see you at school.”

“Look…” Danny says and Stiles turns, hoping his ice-cream won’t melt. “Everything that’s happened aside, it was a really harsh way to come out. I’m sorry man.”

“I… Yeah, I guess…” Stiles admits and then shakes his head. “I mean I’m not sure I am actually _out,_ I didn’t even know I might like a guys until this thing with Jeremy, and that turned out to be pretty weird and twisted. I don’t even know what it was.”

Danny nods, “Still…”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Stiles insists and then laughs out loud. “As Jackson’s friend you’re obliged not to.”

“I just thought you might want to, you know?”

“Because you’re gay?” he asks. “What? Are you going to give an honorary gay speech?”

“Or bisexual…….” Danny grins at him. “There is more than just heterosexual and homosexual, you know. And whatever you are, it _is_ normal.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and salutes him. “Good to know… but seriously, if I want to talk I’ll let you know. But right now I don’t. I’m not okay… but I will be.”

“That’s good to hear…” Danny says and then nods again, playfulness gone. “Did they find out who sent the original text?”

“No,” Stiles says with a shake of the head. He kicks at the dirt to the side of the path. “They tracked it to a dumped phone. Easily disposable, no contract, and most probably bought for the soul purpose of humiliating a one Stiles Stilinski.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry for,” Stiles says with a grin and a tip of the head. “But thanks anyway. Listen I need to get back before this completely melts,” he says, tilting the bag. “I’ve got a date with Thor.”

“Enough said,” Danny says, grandly moving aside with a sweep of the arm. “Who am I to stand between a man and his Hemswoth.”

Stiles snorts and ambles off not catching the sudden worried way Danny looks.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia finally makes an appearance that Monday.

She finds Stiles hunched under the tree that he’d taken to lately. None of the others are with him. He looks pale and is trembling slightly.

“Stiles?”

He looks up at but doesn’t tell her to go away so she takes the opportunity to pull out a ream of paper. “I know you that hate me right now – and you have absolutely no right because I haven’t done anything wrong – and after this you’ll probably hate me some more but,” he says raising her arms in the air and dropping them again in a ‘devil may care’ gesture…” I don’t care. You’re my friend and I love you.”

Stiles doesn’t acknowledge the barrage of her speech, he just stares up at her blankly, so she continues on, waving the paperwork above his head. “He’s done it before. He got transferred here because he had an affair with the chief’s daughter – I’m sure your dad told you about that,” she takes a breath, flipping through some of the papers. “But I did some digging, made a few calls, and found out he’s had several relationships – if you can even call it that – with underage girls. As far as I can tell you’re the only guy. There was one woman, nineteen, who he left pregnant…” she says with a disdain to his voice. She rolls to a stop when she realises Stiles is staring glassily at her. She notices a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Are you going to say something?”

“I found this on my bed last night,” he says instead, offering the folded paper up to her.

She struggles to keep balance of her own bundle but still manages to snag the paper and unfold it.

It simply reads **YOU SLUT**

She looks at him in shock.

“Who else knows about this?”

“No one,” Stiles answers. He shakes his head and hunches in on himself. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“What about Scott? Your dad?”

Stiles shakes his head again.

“They need to know, Stiles. You might be in danger. Someone was in your room.”

“I think Jeremy did it,” Stiles says a little dully. “I think he might be stalking me. He said he was going to ruin me.”

“Stiles…” Lydia says quietly, dropping to her knees in front of him. She riffles through the paperwork she has until she gets halfway through. “Jeremy didn’t do this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How do you know?”

“Because right now Jeremy is in New York,” she tells him.

And she has the pictures to prove it.

 

* * *

 

 “Did you do it?”

_“Did I do what?”_

“Don’t play games. Did you send the text?”

_“Why would you think that?”_

“I help you get CCTV footage from the station for some supposedly drunken act you performed and the next thing I know there’s pictures of Stiles all over the place. Can you see the connection?”

_“I can see why you made that assumption. Relax Danny-boy. This won’t get back to you.”_

“So you did?”

_“I never said that.”_

“Then what _are_ you saying?”

_“Why are you so bothered?”_

“Stiles is my friend and I don’t want to see him hurt.”

_“Really? I never pegged you as friends. Is it because he’s one of you know?”_

“Firstly, you’re really offensive. Secondly – I have more loyalty to him then you. You are _not_ my friend.”

_“Then I guess this is where we part.”_

“I swear if you had anything to do with it…”

_“Unwind your pretty little head. I. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It.”_

“You know everyone hates you, right?”

_“More than Stilinski? Damn. That’s a little harsh from you of all people. I thought you were one of the nice guys.”_

“Well, I don’t completely trust you. And I should never have helped you.”

_“You helped me get footage of me drunkenly mooning a camera. That’s all.”_

“And there wasn’t anything else on the tape?”

_“No. For fuck-sake, how many times do I have to tell you? If it makes you feel better knowing it – I destroyed the entire thing as soon as I got what I needed. Seriously, everything is coolio. Keep your pretty head out of it. Everything will blow over soon. Are you worried that they check and see you hacked into it?”_

“I’m worried someone is playing mind-games with Stiles,”

_“Yeah, well not from this end. But, if you’re asking for my opinion, Stilinski seriously needs to be taken down a peg or too. Everyone thinks the sun shines out of his ass.”_

“I didn’t.”

 _“Jeez Louise. Who crawled up your ass? I was_ only _saying.”_

“Well, don’t. And if it _was_ you, stay away from him.”

_“It wasn’t. But don’t worry - I’ll stay away from him on the account I hate his sorry ass.”_

Click

 

* * *

 

_tbc_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows it can’t possibly be Scott. He was still on the bus. But he’s on his way.
> 
> _He’s on his way he’s on his way he’s on his on –_
> 
> The lights suddenly cut out and he’s plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: sexual assault (very briefly), non-consensual drug taking, and the slow introduction of stalkerish behaviour.
> 
> This chapter kind of summarises a few events of S3, but specifically, 3x03, and the events that occurred after this. S3x06 is alluded to, but it's all very canon-divergent. Meaning Stiles and Danny don't go on the trip and therefore don't go to the motel. Also, as your already aware Jackson is still there. I also wont be killing Derek off because it really doesn't have anything to do with the plot and I kind of need him alive for very important future-ly reasons.
> 
> I also under-predicted again. I promise - the blood and maiming, and hopefully a little horror/thriller - will occur in the next (5th) and final chapter. Seriously. I don't think I have enough for a 6th.
> 
> And to answer a previous enquiry: No, Matt is NOT the stalker. Matt is already dead. This is set at the start of season 3 and progresses a few months into although this chapter kind of falls into line with S3E3 and then shifts forward a bit. However, it is interesting you asked that, because this fic was completely inspired by how I wanted S2E10 Fury to really go down, the - 'Surprise! Matt turned psycho because he really hates Stiles and his life' - head canon. I can't really go into too much detail because it might give Chapter 5 away, so you'll just have to wait and see.  
> Sorry - Long A/N is long :D.

Chapter 4

 

“Where did you get these?” Stiles dad asks, shuffling through the loose papers and photos.

“Let’s just say I Have connections?”

“Connections?”

His dad raises his eyes at Lydia in surprise.

“Okay… Mr Whittemore has connections,” Lydia concedes. “I persuaded him to use one of them.”

His dad’s eyebrows rise up further, furrowing his forehead. Stiles, too, turns surprised eyes on her.

“As in the father of Jackson Whittemore?” his dad asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who filed a restraining order against my son?”

“The one and only,” Lydia says dryly, staring down at her nails as though she was bored with the scrutiny. “He’s a lawyer. A successful one, I might add. It didn’t take much to pull a few strings and get a P.I. to track him down.”

“And why would Jackson’s father do this for Stiles?” his dad asks, waving the paperwork in his hands between them.

Stiles just continues to stare at Lydia before turning and shrugging at him.

“Seriously?” Lydia turns a disapproving and hard glare at him. “Jackson unfiled the restraining order, didn’t he?”

“He hates me,” Stiles points out.

“He doesn’t hate you, Stiles…” Lydia sighs loudly. “He’s not a total jackass. He was really angry when he found out what happened, especially when Jeremy turned up and knocked you on your ass.”

Stiles turns away, not wanting to think about the last time he’d seen Jeremy, and glares moodily out of his dad’s window into the open bull-pen. “He didn’t do it for me,” He reminds her. “He did it for you.”

“Well, I might have insisted. Rather firmly…” she agrees and flicks her fiery red hair over her shoulder. “But he didn’t need much convincing and when it came to it. It was Jackson who got his dad to agree, not me.”

“It doesn’t prove anything though,” Stiles snaps at her and then stills, shaking his head before saying, more softly. “Just that he’s not here.”

“And that he didn’t leave this…” his dad points out, nodding at the unassuming letter, with the sparse words, lying clearly in the middle of the desk.

“It’s just one note,” Stiles protests, covering the fact that he’d totally freaked when he’d found it.

“Still…” his dad starts to say.

“- You and I both know you can’t waste department resources over one little note,” he says, tensing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Except that someone’s been in your room,” Lydia protests, turning and folding her arms.

“Apart from that,” Stiles says, waving at the paper on the desk. “There’s no evidence and it’s not even threatening.”

“He’s right,” His dad says after a beat and Stiles rolls his eyes, silently saying _you know it_ and Lydia shakes her head and glares at him even more. “But you come to me straight away if you get anything else. And I mean _anything._ You got it, Stiles?”

Stiles salutes him and offers a lazy grin when his dad looks unimpressed. He hopes it covers the fact that he’s suddenly feeling a little guilty that he’s not informed him of the numerous texts he was _still_ receiving, but then, for the most part, he’s pretty sure that it was all to do with Stiles travels into unintentional voyeurism and public de-virginising.

“… and maybe we can organise it so that you’re not driving to school by yourself…” his dad continues.

“-What? Why?” Stiles asks, smile sliding off his face. “I can drive myself.”

“I can help,” Lydia offers straight away, ignoring Stiles refusal. “Just give me some warning,” she says and then stares him down hard. “I do have a life. It’s not like everything is Stiles-related.”

“Right,” Stiles mumbles, eying the bundle of papers still on the desk.

Lydia hardens her look and huffs under her breath.

“Good,” his dad says, nodding in approval. “Scott definitely will. Maybe Hale too… he seems to be interested in your welfare.”

“Really?” Stiles and Lydia say simultaneously.

“When the hell did that happen?” Lydia asks.

“It didn’t?” Stiles says. He tries to dodge the questioning look only to find his dad staring at him expectantly.

“Don’t think I won’t sit you down and ask you how you actually know him,” his dad tells him.

“So you don’t think he’s a serial killer anymore?”

“Not anymore. All the evidence very neatly pointed elsewhere. And it also helps that he brought you home when you were obviously very upset,” his dad reminds him. “And for some reason – he was able to talk to you when Scott and I couldn’t.”

“So, you’re saying you trust him?” Stiles asks, a grin forming.

“I _believe_ in him to get you from A to B unscathed,” his dad frowns at him, a small grin forming too before waving them off. “Now scoot… I want to go through all of this without you meddling kids present.”

Stiles laughs at the reference and he thinks Lydia gets it too, despite her flair of annoyance and muttering.

She follows him out of the station, slinking her arm through his, and pulling him down on to the bench outside.

“Are we okay?” she asks a little tentatively.

“I guess,” he nods at her.

“You yelled at me,” she reminds him. Instantly he feels shame. He knew it was never her fault. “You said you hated me.”

“We’re okay,” he says quickly, cutting her off from any other reminders of what a total idiot he had been. “I never should have said those things. None it was your fault. I was a total shit-bag to you.”

“Yeah, you were,” she agrees, breaking into a surprised smile. “But you’re our shit-bag.”

Stiles doesn’t know who the ‘our’ she is referring to – Allison? Scott? – But he’s glad she’s starting to feel like she belongs again. He grins back and nods slightly, feeling a small chuckle roll out of him.

“We’re you upset the note wasn’t from him?” Lydia asks. She rests her head on his shoulder in a move that was far from being normal for her.

“No,” Stiles says quickly, surprised at the question.

“It’s just that you seemed a little,” she murmurs up at him.

“I was just pissed that he’d left,” Stiles says quietly. “Guess it reminded me that I didn’t mean anything to him.”

“The punch to the face didn’t tell you that?” she asks. There’s no trace of humor, just full of hard edges and an acidic tone.

“Ye..ah..” he says, voice cracking over it.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia says, lifting her head and staring at him with wide and open eyes. “For everything that happened before and after.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t deserve it.”

Stiles smiles watery and nods shakily, glancing away to wipe at an unexpected tear that burned its way down his cheek.

Lydia pulls away to rummage through her purse and Stiles expects her to pull a tissue out but a bag of Reeces Pieces is pushed into his hand again. “You still have me,” she offers.

Stiles remembers the last time he’d heard those words – from his own mouth no less – and feels a little bitter that he’s not hearing them from Scott instead (yeah, deep down, he knows he still has him… just a little fractured from what it was before). Seeing the small red-headed goddess seated beside him, he’s not too bothered.

“You’re the best,” he says, snatching the packet out of her hand.

“I know,” Lydia announces blithely and very casually slips herself under his arm. “And now I have your full attention… we have a lot to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take Stiles long to catch on to the fact that there’s been a series of murders – okay so he _knew_ there’d been murders, he’d just been so caught up in his own drama that he hadn’t seen the significance of any of it, it wasn’t an animal attack, so werewolves weren’t, for once, responsible and therego not Stiles problem – that is until one of his oldest friends is killed.

He ends up at Heather’s party. She’s a little over-zealous and tipsy and plants a huge sloppy kiss on him. He has a moment to recognise the girl who dunked his drunken head in the pool at Lydia’s party, but before he can even verbalise it, Heather’s dragging him off and they wind up, surprisingly, in the basement making out. Heather disappears to find a condom and it gives him enough time to thoroughly freak the fuck-out, not knowing what the hell he was supposed to be feeling, and he ends up bailing, not even waiting around to explain it to her.

Only the next day, he finds out publically, that she never returned to the party and no one’s seen her since and Stiles may have been the last to see her. He’s a little shaken at this but goes with his dad to give him his statement. He would have stayed if he’d known the consequences.

Because now he finds himself at the hospital staring at a bunch of dead bodies – Derek’s busy, it seems, and Scott’s not answering his phone – and that would be fine, ‘cause this is his life now it seems (despite the fact that he’s still not good with blood and gore and _oh my god, is that brain fluid?_ ), only the last body Scott’s mom reveals is _her._

He feels the color drain from his face, his lips tremble, eyes watering.

“Oh god. Did you know her?” Melissa asks, horrified.

“Her name’s Heather,” Stiles nods, wiping at his eyes with his arm. “It was her birthday. I think I might have been the last person to see her alive.”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have shown you if I had realised,” she says, voice trailing off. Stiles continues to stare down at the body even as she is hurriedly trying to cover it. “We need to call you your dad. You might be a witness.”

Her voice fades out on him, as he registers the marks, the obvious wounds, eyes darting around him frantically from one body to another. This was a pattern. He’d seen enough research over the last year to recognise a three-fold death when he sees one.

Melissa obviously thinks he’s freaking out on her because she’s suddenly pushing him into a chair and muttering about calling his dad again. He gathers himself together to wave her off and convince her to call Scott instead, telling her “I know what’s happening.”

In the time it takes for the call to be made and Scott to finally show up, Stiles thinks at how much he should have been involved – he’d been so blindsided by Jeremy and the fallout from that, that he suddenly, surprisingly, realises how much he’s missed everything else. He doesn’t mean the copious death or maiming that was always bound to happen, but the general concept of being _there,_ being _involved._ Instead, he’d left Scott and the others, to deal with everything on their own and he finds his heart wildly beating against his rib-cage because of it.

When Scott arrives, making a beeline for Stiles with a worried look on his face, Stiles has no qualms at pulling him into a stupidly big hug.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters into his shoulder.

“Oh,” Scott says in surprise, sounding a little winded, and then tightening his arms around him. “It’s okay,” he says, patting him on his back and then “So what’s this about you figuring everything out?”

“Sacrifices.”

And because he’s still a little shaken, he ends up bracing himself against an empty table, as he explains his theory. Scott is stood off to the side of him, the remaining tables spread out in front of them, in a distinctive shape, until they reached a point.

He once read somewhere that everything was connected with triangles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing too peculiar happens. Well, apart from another body that turns up right in the middle of their gym class track run, and Harris disappears too. It becomes a norm really. And every time someone turns up dead with the exact same injuries, stiles turns and exchanges a knowing look with Scott.

It’s obvious virgins are at risk but Stiles can’t quite figure out the rest – he gets a slap to the face for his troubles. Thankfully, Stiles doesn’t have to worry about the virginity thing anymore, his phone still being a testament to his recent deflowering. He’s still getting crude texts, and for the most part they’re pretty harmless. Occasionally he wonders if they’re more malign then they appear.

“Are you okay?”

“Hmm?”

“Are. You. Okay?”

Stiles side-eyes Derek from where he’s looking at his phone. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, glancing out of the passenger window “You know you don’t _actually_ have to drive me.”

“Your dad asked me,” Derek responds me, stopping at a red-light. “Don’t worry, you got Scott tomorrow.”

“It’s like a tag-team,” Stiles grouses. “When are you guys going to let the leash go? It’s not like anything has happened in ages.”

“Apart from the obvious sacrificial murders that are occurring, you mean?” Derek rolls his eyes at him.

“That hasn’t got anything to do with me,” he argues and then grins. “Apart from the part where I was the genius who figured it out. Besides… I’m not even a virgin anymore.”

“It’s not just virgins though, is it?” Derek shoots him a look before making a right and heading down the road. “And as much as a supposed genius as you are, you, like us, haven’t figured out the others. I’m pretty sure Deaton wasn’t a virgin.”

Stiles shudders at the thought.

“I don’t know,” he says, a thought occurring to him. “He’s a little Obi Wan-ish. It’s really fucking annoying.”

Derek, surprisingly, snorts at the thought and then glances at Stiles as the phone buzzes in his hand.

“What does it say?”

“Huh?” Stiles asks, sliding the message close and pocketing it.

“The text?” Derek prompts, indicating to pull into the school parking-lot.

“Nothing,” Stiles mumbles.

He feels Derek brake suddenly right there in the entrance, all ready to switch off the engine. There’s already a line of traffic forming behind them. Even a few honks at the sudden interruptus.

“Okay! Jeez, no need for dramatics,” Stiles announces prissily. He waits for Derek to be satisfied and pull away before he continues. “It says _‘You should die’_ and the one before that said _‘I hate you’._ ”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Seriously Derek, don’t make a big deal out of it,” Stiles protests, unbuckling his belt. “It’s just childish nonsense. Dickheads who think they sound cool. And I’m getting them less.”

“Listen,” Derek calls, snagging his arm as he rounds around the Camaro. “If anything happens, if you feel like you’re in trouble, you call me or your dad. Okay?”

Stiles feels warmed at the sudden sentiment and grins wide at the older man. “Absoluto,” he laughs, and then looks down expectantly at his arm. Derek coughs, appearing uncomfortable, releasing it. “You know I’m going to hold you to that for the rest of your life, don’t you?”

“And I’m going live to regret it,” Derek responds with a regrettable frown.

“Most definitely,” Stiles grins at him, watching him pull away.

He turns to find Danny staring at him from the steps.

“He’s not really a ‘Miguel’ is he?” Danny asks.

And for the first time in ages he genuinely laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

Jeremy has a lot to answer for.

Or at least he’s misguided feelings for Jeremy had a lot to answer for. His grades had slipped. He was bored. He missed Lacrosse. He realises, only now, that the last time he’d actually played was a few weeks after Jeremy had come to see him play.

For that reason he seeks Finstock out after class.

“Hey, Coach,” Stiles tries for casual with a heap of sheepish thrown in. “Can I talk to you?”

“Stilinski?” Coach eyes him warily. “If this is about men, or relationships, or sexuality…”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, trying to deter him from any other form of embarrassment. “It’s about Lacrosse, actually.”

“Thank god,” he says, relaxing immediately. “I don’t think I can talk about anything else.”

“It could have been economics,” he reminds him helpfully.

“I don’t think you need any help there,” Coach snorts and then seeing the frown on Stiles’ face he continues with “You’re pretty good with it.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, smiling a little at the left-field compliment. “Thanks?”

“So what did you want to say?”

“I just wanted to apologise. For bailing on the team,” Stiles says, feeling a blush creep up on his face. “I know I have no right to ask, but I was wondering if you’d have me back?”

“You didn’t quit.”

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t officially quit. You had a lot of no-shows and a piss-poor attitude,” Coach continues. “And you were close from being dropped, but you weren’t.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Stiles asks, clearly baffled.

“It means I’ll see you next practice,” the coach waves him off with a grin.

“Oh,” Stiles says, feeling himself smile, gratitude creeping up him along with a completely inappropriate urge to bear hug the older man. “Thanks. That’s really good of you.”

“Stilinski,” Coach says, chortling. “You suck less than Greenberg.”

Stiles isn’t sure if the coach is giving him a backwards comment or making a joke and he laughs, small and little airy, in the awkwardness of it.

“Seriously,” Coach continues, standing up and rounding the desk, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “You’re much better, you’ve showed a lot of improvement this season and you did win us _that_ game.”

“Thank Coach,” Stiles him, deciding now would be a good time to vacate the classroom before it became more awkward.

Out in the corridor, someone clips him on the shoulder, leaving him on his keens and gathering his books up. He’s distracted by it and doesn’t see that the same person then heads into the class he’s just left.

 

* * *

 

 

If Stiles is happy one moment, it’s cruelly dashed the next.

Coach pulls him aside as he’s getting ready for practice with a “A word, Stilinski?”

He waits until everyone files out, Scott the last to leave with a worried frown, before he speaks to him.

“Coach?”

“I’m sorry, Stilinski.”

“You’re sorry? For what?”

“You can’t play.”

“Like today?” Stiles asks. He wasn’t really expecting to – he couldn’t just turn up and get a spot after weeks of deliberate non-attendance and avoidance. “You can bench me.”

“I mean… you can’t be on the team.”

The words dry on Stiles lips and he shakes his head in confusion. Finstock had seemed happy to have him back. Stoked, even.

“I thought you said…” Stiles starts with a small voice.

“I know what I said,” Finstock cuts him off softly. “And in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have.”

“Hindsight? Has something happened?”

“Someone – with good intentions, I think – brought to my attention that having you back may not be in the team’s best interest. Especially with how recent everything has been.”

“Oh,” Stiles says a little dumbly. “I don’t get it.” He does, of course he does. He’s still a talking point. The other teams would love to use it.

“I have to think of the team right now and I know a lot of people don’t think of it as a serious sport, but I do,” Finstock tells him openly and now Stiles feels entirely ashamed again. “And if there’s a chance of anyone getting a scholarship, I have to help them take it. Championships are equally important and image is everything and…. From what I hear, there still photos out there, maybe even a tape. That’s not going to make anyone look good.”

“I get it,” Stiles says quietly, shrugging it off. He still squeezes the Lacrosse stick tightly within his hand all the same. “I’m not good for the team.”

“You know if I could have you on the team, I would…” Finstock tells him. He even pats his arm awkwardly.

“Yeah, I know.”

“This has all been very… recent for you,” he’s reminded again. “Maybe you need to take the time to recover?”

Stiles eyes him sceptically but keeps his mouth in check. He can see that Finstock feels terrible about it.

“Yeah, Coach…” Stiles laughs dryly. “I think I’ll try that sometime.”

Scott finds him sat on one of the benches in the locker room sometime later. His hands are tired, his fingers raw from where he’s angrily untied every knot and thread to his Lacrosse stick until they’re all useless and hanging loosely.

“What happened?” Scott asks, eyeing the Lacrosse stick. “I thought you were playing?”

“I’m not good for the team, apparently…” Stiles mumbles, staring down at his stinging fingers. “Not with a sex-tape and an unknown amount of photos still out there. Someone – _politely_ – reminded him of that.”

“What? But I thought…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles protests.

“But it does,” Scott insists. “Let me go and talk to him.”

“No,” Stiles yelps after him, dragging him back. “Just drop it.”

“Drop what?” Danny asks, rounding the corner, Jackson following him.

“Coach kicked him off the team,” Scott announces hotly.

“I thought you quit?” Jackson says, confused.

“I did,” Stiles agrees, sighing tiredly. “Kind of. Not officially? Maybe I didn’t? Doesn’t matter now – I’m officially dropped.”

“No way,” Danny objects on behalf of him and then Scott’s nodding too and it just riles Stiles even further. “This is totally out of order. We need to talk to the Coach.”

“That’s what I said…” Scott surmises.

“No!” Stiles snaps loudly at them. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

He sees the flash of hurt across Scott’s face and instantly feels bad for snapping at him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says more quietly. “Just leave it alone, okay. No harm, no foul, right?” and because the words are more than a little ironic right now he starts laughing a little too hard, causing worried glances among the three standing.

“Stiles?” Jackson asks, slowly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, waving him off, still laughing, actually in need of wiping his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing really does.”

He refuses to move from the bench, and waits for everyone to leave, simply staring at the innocuous Lacrosse stick staring back at him. Scott rebuffs the request to leave and sits across from him on the opposite bench and watches him as he painstakingly reties and re-threads each and every one of the knots until there was no sign it had ever been undone.

 

* * *

 

 

_“No way.”_

_“C’mon…”_

_“Not gonna happen.”_

_“You’ve done it for me enough times.”_

_“That’s different.”_

_“Different how?”_

_“You’re you.”_

_“And?”_

_“And I like you.”_

_“Then you’ll do this for me.”_

_“I won’t.”_

_“I think you will.”_

_“Not gonna happen…”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are we doing this again?”

It’s Stiles who speaks, but by the look on Jackson’s face, he too is thinking it.

“Solidarity,” Danny tells him from the passenger seat. “You’ve been dumped. We’re taking you out to make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, a little dumb-founded from where he’s cramped into Jackson’s back-seat. “You I get, Danny. But him…” he says, nodding his head towards Jackson who simply stares ahead out of the window, towards the flashing neon ‘Jungle’ sign, looking unimpressed. “Not so much.”

“Don’t be fooled by the stony face and ice-cold exterior,” Danny hums at him. “Jackson’s the best remedy for a break-up. I should know, I’ve had enough of them. He actually has a bleeding heart for it.”

Stiles stares disbelieving as Danny grins and proceeds to try and poke the thin-set grimace littering Jackson’s scowl into an actual smile and is even more shocked when he sees that it’s actually working.

“I will kill you, Danny…” Jackson warns half-heartedly, batting his hand away.

“Oh, you love it,” Danny grins back.

“Why today? Aren’t you supposed to be on this trip thing?”

Stiles isn’t on the list anymore because he’s not on the team but it doesn’t explain why Danny and Jackson are not their either.

“Solidarity!” Danny announces in a cheerful tone and then nudges Jackson rather forcibly when he doesn’t respond.

“Solidarity,” Jackson agrees in a bored tone. “Besides, we’re not missing anything. Lydia text me to say they got stuck in the longest traffic jam and now they’re in a really crappy motel. They didn’t even make the meet.”

Stiles already knows this because Lydia had obviously sent it as group text and he rather, and most probably, very inappropriately, feels very smug about it, as though it was the best thing ever to realise Jackson’s girlfriend couldn’t be bothered to communicate _privately_ with him and that Stiles might be important enough to be included in the mundane details of Lydia’s life.

_In your face, Whittemore._

They end up inside Jungle because apparently Danny wanted to show Stiles _‘that not all guys were dicks’_ but, from where he watched Danny gyrating with someone on the dance floor, they all definitely had them.

“I’m kind of surprised actually,” he tells Jackson when he surprises him further and buys him a drink – the first time in his two visits that the barmen didn’t try and ID him.

“About what?”

“You’re kind of a douche.”

“Is that how you usually thank someone?”

“Actually you’re a lot of douche,” Stiles continues, ignoring him. “And an asshole. So it’s kind of ironic, isn’t it, that your best friend is gay. Kind of goes against the laws of douchery.”

“I like to keep everyone on their toes,” Jackson says wryly.

Stiles nods and clinks his glass against Jackson’s. “As you wish, Jackson.”

There’s a loud hoot and an explosion of laughter and then suddenly he has a face full of Greenberg in front of him.

“Guys!” Greenberg announces, obviously enjoying his drink. He swings his arms up around both of their shoulders and pulls them into an impromptu hug, sloshing alcohol over the sides.

“Eugh,” Jackson mutters, picking the offending arm off him and stepping away. Stiles can’t help but chuckle slightly until he realises Jackson’s abandoning him with the hapless Greenberg. “Good luck,” Jackson mutters, suddenly disappearing into the mass of dancing bodies.

“Oh, okay…” Stiles says as Greenberg suddenly replaces his errant arm on his other shoulder and laughs near his ear. “Can we try for some space, maybe?”

“Yeah, space is good,” Greenberg agrees. “Space I can do.”

He steps away and leans against the counter, eyes still full of amusement.

“Didn’t think this was your kind of place,” Stiles comments, now at a loss as to what to say.

“It’s the only interesting place around.”

“Shouldn’t you be on this trip?”

“Missed the bus,” Greenberg says, taking a gulp from his glass seemingly none too phased. “Drink?”

 

* * *

 

 

Jackson’s not a dancer. He never has been. But when out with Danny, he just couldn’t help it… people, even him, just gravitated towards him. He was infectious and, ultimately, it would always be unavoidable. He remembered the first time he’d been out with him – he’d fervently refused and had ended up being dragged out on to the dance floor.

So here he was, moving his body to the beat of the music. He wasn’t too keen on the close proximity of the other bodies, so he stuck close to Danny, letting him press his back into his chest. He looked around, realising he couldn’t see Stiles anymore. If there was one thing Stiles would learn from tonight it would be that hiding from Danny would be futile and if he had to dance then Stiles would have to as well.

“Where the hell is Stilinski?” Jackson shouts over the music.

“We’re terrible friends. We’re supposed to be making him feel better,” Danny shouts back, leaning back and lifting his head so that Jackson could hear. “Go find him,” he says, waving a hand and stepping away into another sway of music.

It doesn’t take him long to find him.

Instantly he knows that something isn’t quite right.

Stiles heartbeat is beating too fast, his face is looking paler than usual. His leant against the back wall of the club, eyes moving sluggishly around him, occasionally glancing down at his arm… where a hand is clamped tightly around it.

Jackson instantly stiffens and marches forward.

“- Oh Honey, what have you got yourself into,” he hears it drawled even before he reaches them.

He recognises her. She’s one of the drag-queens he’s seen around the club before. He even recalls her being at Lydia’s party, which had been quite surprising at the time.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, rounding on them.

Stiles rolls his head against the wall at the sound and smiles, uncoordinated, and lazily.

“And who are you, sweetie?” she asks back, eyes hardening. She loses the soft way she had spoken to Stiles and hardens her eyes.

“Jackson,” he answers, eyes raising.

“Oh,” she says, instantly relaxing and dropping her tight hold to Stiles arm. “His friend. He mentioned you. I’m Candice.”

_Friend?_

Stiles laughs, a light giggle that shifts into a confused grumble, and then lists unexpectedly his left, dropping heavily towards Candice.

“I’ve got it from here,” Jackson tells her pointedly, grabbing at Stiles arm and yanking him upright. He has to rebalance him, as Stiles makes an immediate attempt to fall, facedown into his chest, and braces him back against the wall.

“Good… I’m glad someone’s looking out for him,” Candice says and Jackson can’t help but feel guilty. “Toodles,” she says, planting a soft kiss on Stiles’ cheek, smudging her red-lipstick against his pale skin. “Look after him,” she growls at Jackson a little too menacing and then she’s off, leaving Jackson waving away a light cloud of glitter particles at her sudden departure.

“Stiles?” Jackson says, shaking the heavily limbed boy to get a reaction. “You okay?”

“Need some air,” Stiles slurs, sagging a little further down the wall, head bowing, hands finding their way to his slightly bent knees. “Feel a little weird.”

“How much have you had to drink?”  Jackson asks, lifting Stiles head to look into his eyes – pupils dilated.  Sweaty clamminess breaks out across the brunette’s forehead.

“N’thing…” Stiles mumbles out, compliantly letting him pull him away from the wall, crumpling into his side. Thankfully they’re near an exit, but there’s still quite a few bodies crushing into each other, and Jackson finds himself slipping his arm around Stiles and shielding him from physical contact. “Not since… not… since…”

Jackson can actually tell this, in hindsight, thanks to scent. He can’t smell an over-indulgence in alcohol (although now that he’s really looking into Stiles face he can tell he’s lost weight – he’s lost the puppy fat from around the face – , maybe even too much, and he wonders if it won’t take him much to feel affected by it, especially if he hasn’t eaten much) but there’s also another smell. Medicated. Strong. Bitter. And not the usual medicated smell Stiles usually had. Everyone knew Stiles probably popped more Adderall then he was supposed to take, but no one ever called him on it.

As soon as they find themselves outside Stiles hurls his cookies, losing whatever he ate earlier.

“Great,” Jackson groans, hand methodically patting Stiles on the back, voice filled with sarcasm. “ _Lets take him out, make him feel better,_ he said, _it’ll be fun, Jackson_.”

“S’rry…” Stiles slurs, allowing Jackson to drag him away, side-stepping the puddle of vomit. Stiles turns blood-shot and glazed eyes, wet and ready to water, looking even befuddled than before. “I don’t know… I can’t r’member…”

“Did you take something?” Jackson demands, hands grabbing at his face again. The acidic odour of vomit is strong between them – enough to make him want to hurl too – but the bitter medicated smell is still there, still in the midst of it all. He tugs and pulls Stiles wandering gaze back into line. “What. Did. You. Take?”

“Huh?” Stiles asks, blinking slowly, obviously finding it hard to concentrate or follow any conversation.

“Drugs?” Jackson prompts.

Stiles eyes crinkle in confusion and then he’s frowning.

“Don’ think… no?” he says, confused. Jackson can tell he’s becoming distressed – the heart beats a little faster, the eyes water a little bit more, his voice catches and cracks on the bewilderment – and then he’s mumbling a little incoherently, but Jackson catches something about ‘Greenberg’ and a ‘drink’.

“The little shit,” Jackson hisses, promptly digging his phone out. He hopes Danny has his phone on vibrate, worried he might not hear it over the loudness of the music. Thankfully Danny does pick up. “Get outside now,” he orders before hanging up on him.

Danny arrives a few minutes later, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes widening even further when he catches sight of Stiles – a tangle of arms and legs – hanging in Jackson’s arms.

“Hey, D’nny…” Stiles slurs with an uncoordinated wave.

“Greenberg happened,” Jackson snaps, shoving Stiles at Danny before he can protest.

“What do you mean?” he asks, struggling to keep both of them standing.

“The little shit spiked his drink,” Jackson fumes.

“What? Why the hell would have done that?” Danny asks in confusion, occasionally having to ward of Stiles errant and wandering hand, finger poking at his lips.

“I don’t know… but I’m gonna go and find out,” Jackson declares, fully intending to march right back into the club and drag the little idiotic shit out, only when he turns he finds Greenberg there, right in the doorway and he swears, just for a second, that there was a smirk but when he blinks it’s gone and all that is there is a slightly shocked and concerned face.

“Is he okay?” Greenberg asks, worriedly.

“Did you do this?” Danny asks, voice accusatory but clearly still hopeful.

“Shit…” Greenberg says, shaking his head, a sheepish look fluttering across his face. “I won’t deny it.”

“Why?” Jackson growls at him, taking a step forward.

“Whoa…” Greenberg says, jumping a little, hands out placating. “I just wanted to loosen him up a little. He’s wound up so fucking tight.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Danny demanded angrily. Stiles mumbles distress at the anger to the tone. “If it had happened to you.”

“I guess,” Greenberg says. He looks guiltier now and shrugs a little. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted him to have a good time. Isn’t that what you guys said? That you wanted him to feel better? To have a good time?”

“You’re a little shit,” Jackson announces.

He takes another step towards Greenberg, anger building.

Greenberg pales and step back.

“Jackson…” Danny warns.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles sleeps for the remainder of the night and most of the next day.  When he becomes aware of his body again he realises he’s not in his own bed and he blinks and rouses, half awake, every time someone appears then disappears.

Somewhere in the room a phone rings. His phone. But he doesn’t have enough energy, or even feel inclined, to find it. It rings several times throughout the day until Jackson finally appears and thrusts it at him. Thankfully – although Stiles can’t be bothered to voice his gratitude – he’s waited until Stiles is coherent enough to process what’s going on.

“You need to answer it,” Jackson growls at him. “Scott’s been calling you for most of the day.”

He takes it from him but isn’t quick enough to answer. He sees he has a lot of missed calls from both Scott and his dad as well as few text messages.

“What am I doing here?” Stiles asks, voice rough and thick sounding.

“We couldn’t send you home like that,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes. “We have our fake ID’s to protect.”

“Jeez, thanks…” Stiles mumbles at him. He looks blearily around the room in distaste. “Why am I here?”

“I already said…”

“No, I mean why am I _here_?” Stiles asks again. “Why not Danny’s?”

“Because Danny can’t lie for shit,” Jackson says, and Stiles catches the way Jackson scowls, voice more than a little bitter. “And he freaked out. Your dad called a few times when you didn’t answer your phone by the way?”

“What? Why?” Stiles asks, confused and now panicking. “Great, now I have to explain why I’m crashing at yours. _‘Yeah, dad, about that… you know the guy who had a restraining order against me, we’ve been having a sleepover. Go figure…’_. Yeah, how do I explain _that_?”

“Relax, will you…” Jackson says, seemingly bored of his drama. “I covered for you.”

“You?” Stiles asks in disbelief and laughs. “Yeah, right… wait, how did he know I’m here, anyway?”

“You left a note for him saying you were at Danny’s. His mom said you were here. I told him that because it was late we all decided to crash here instead. I said you seemed pretty tired lately and seemed to crash harder than us. Didn’t take much convincing about that.”

“A truth within a lie,” Stiles nods at Jackson. “I’m impressed.”

“You’d know, right?” Jackson huffs at him.

“What happened to me?” Stiles asks out of the blue. Because he knows _something_ did and that he can’t remember _anything_ at all.

“Your drink was spiked.”

“Really?” Stiles asks and sees Jackson nodding. He flops his head back down onto the bed. “Fuck my life,” he pauses, frowning. “I don’t remember anything. Nothing happened, right?”

“Thanks to me,” Jackson confirms with a smug grin. Stiles phone rings again and he grapples for it, searching for it. Jackson groans and lifts it again, shoving it at him. Stiles only now notices that there’s a residue of blood under his nails.

“Whose blood is that?” Stiles asks nervously.

“No one’s. Don’t worry about it,” Jackson tells him and thrusts the phone at him again. “Take the damn call before your dad starts thinking I have you tied up somewhere.”

 “Hey,” he says once he connects the call, instantly hating how scratchy his voice sounds.

“Hey, kid…” his dad greets him. “Should I be worried?”

“No?”

“Have you been drinking? You sound terrible.”

“No, definitely not,” Stiles answers, biting down on the urge to laugh. “I just crashed really hard.”

“So I heard,” he hears his dad say. “I’m a little surprised at where you chose to crash, but you obviously needed it.”

“Yeah…” Stiles says a little lamely, unsure of what to say. If he was going tom have to lie to his dad _again_ he’d rather not say anything at all.

“I spoke to Derek,” his dad tells him.

“Oh?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the new texts?”

“They’re not really new,” Stiles protests. “They’re just a little different. You can’t really do anything about it.”

“It’s illegal, Stiles. They’re unsolicited, bullying and harassing.  I, and your school, warned everyone that there would be consequences.”

“Do we have to make this an issue?”

He can feel Jackson watching him from the other side of the room.

“You’re my son and you don’t deserve this. Of course it’s an issue,” his dad says hotly and then a little more softly. “I don’t like that you’ve been keeping this from me, kid.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles tries to reassure him. “I was just trying to ignore them. I figured if I was the better person, and it didn’t look like I was bothered by it, then they’d get bored and leave me alone.”

“You _are_ better, Stiles…” his dad agrees and Stiles feels himself smiling a little.

“Thanks, dad…”

“We’ll talk about this more when I get home.”

“Okay.”

“Are you heading home soon?”

“Just about to leave actually,” Stiles tells him, seeing the relieved look cross Jackson’s face.

“Good. Go home. Stay home,” his dad says. “I’ll look at the phone in the morning.”

“You’re on a night shift?” Stiles asks, surprised as it was still early.

“Had to go in early,” his dad sighs tiredly. “Alleged physical assault. We’ve been a little short staffed – Tara’s sister went into labor.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, mood brightening. “Poor her. She’s been bitching about her sister opting for a pool birth for months now.”

“Yeah,” his dad chuckles too. “I’m just finishing up my paperwork now.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, shuddering in sympathy for Tara. “I’ll let you go… and dad?”

“No junk food.”

“You got it,” his dad says, laughing a bit too loudly before disconnecting the call.

He checks Scott’s text after. They start out innocent and a little boring, how Isaac keeps getting up into the face of Aidan, how he’d heard several times over, thanks to his werewolf hearing, how much Ethan missed Danny and what he would do him to him when they next saw each other (yeah, Stiles decides to skip those texts, thank you very much) and then they became more concerning. He skips forward until he finally gets to the alert for an answerphone message.

_[Scott] Stiles? Where the hell are you? I’m worried man. Things have been really weird here. People nearly died._

He immediately rings him back.

“Stiles?”

“Scott? Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

He loses any color he has to his cheeks when he hears Scott tell him the events of the last twenty-four hours – it’s hard because he’s whispering because not everyone on the bus needs to hear.

“Okay,” Stiles says, rolling off the bed and searching for his shoes. “I’ll meet you back at my house.”

“What happened?” Jackson asks, interest piqued.

“Nothing,” Stiles snaps at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Fine,” Jackson huffs at him. He flings the second shoe at him. “I’m gonna go meet Danny. You better be gone when I get back.”

When he gets downstairs there’s no sign of Jackson and Stiles ends up having to wait for a taxi to pick him up.

It’s dark by the time he gets home and he knows he should be home alone, but as soon as he steps into the house he feels on edge and proceeds to turn on as many lights as he possibly can between the front door and the kitchen. Only, when he gets to the kitchen he sees that the back door is slightly ajar, the wind swiping the curtain and leaving it softly wafting back and forth.

“Dad?” he calls, knowing full well he wasn’t there. “Scott?”

He knows it can’t possibly be Scott. He was still on the bus. But he’s on his way.

_He’s on his way he’s on his way he’s on his on –_

The lights suddenly cut out and he’s plunged into darkness.

Panic rises and a whine becomes trapped in his throat.

“Who’s there?” he asks, the urge to cry increasing, whirling in the darkness. “I know…” he pants, “Someone’s here.”

“Jeremy?” he asks foolishly, eyes finally leaking. He knows it can’t be him. He’s in New York. He doesn’t want anything to do with him. It freaks him out even more because this means that it’s someone else. An unknown threat. Who’s in the dark with him right now. And he’s terrified because he’s gone from having weird, freaky texts with an undertone of threat to immediate danger.

He feels something brush past him on his left and he her whirls with it.

“Stop it,” Stiles orders, but it comes out weak and pathetic, voice shaking.

Another brush on his right, followed by a lingering touch to his cheek, and Stiles follows the movement, swiping it away.  He connects with something that crashes and shatters to the floor only seconds later.

Whatever or whoever is there uses the temporary distraction to launch themselves at him and suddenly Stiles is being floored to the ground, head connecting hard with the floor, and leaving him gasping in pain and seconds away from passing out.

A rough hand against his crotch brings him back, painful and tight and none too pleasant. He becomes acutely aware of the glass digging in through his shirt, scratching at his exposed skin. He lets out a pained breath, gasping with surprise.

“Don’t think I’m enjoying this,” a voice hisses down at him, quietly controlled in his ear. Stiles blinks as he sees the moonlight glance across eyes. Hard, unforgiving, dangerous eyes. “I’m just showing you who’s really in control.”

He feels his pants being tugged open, the hand from before finding its way in and squeezing even harder. Stiles eyes water with pain and, despite that he’s still reeling from where he hit his head, he has enough wits about him to scream. Really loudly.

“Shh,” the voice murmurs at him, hand clamping hard over his mouth angrily, nails digging in sharply to skin.

Stiles bites down hard and hopes he tears skin.

Someone hisses in pain and the pressure in his pants is gone and the hand retreats only to find its way to his head where he’s struck hard across the face. Stiles has no idea if he was slapped or punched. All he knows is that he ends up rolling away, spitting out blood and begging whoever it is to _“please, just leave me alone.”_

“Stiles?” a voice barks from further in the house.

“Shit,” the voice closer to him hisses out. They lean over him, grabbing his hair and lifting his head up. “You ruined my life, Stilinski…” he tells him, promising him. “I won’t let you forget it.”

His hair is released and he drops back down on the floor with a thud, footsteps retreating from him towards the back door. Stiles has no clue as to whether they’ve actually left or not until the lights switch back on, revealing Scott in the doorway to the hall and Stiles laying in the middle of broken glass.

“Scott?” he asks, voice cracking, tears immediately falling.

“Stiles!” Scott shouts, horrified.

“Someone was here…” Stiles looks around him blearily, accidently planting his hand palm down into the glass, wincing as he does, but unsure where to put any of his body parts. “They attacked me.”

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, rushing to his side. He easily pulls him up and away from the glass.

“No,” Stiles says, honestly, shaking his head, voice cracking as more tears fell. He feels the tremors snake up until he’s all out shaking. Scott must notice too because he sweeps his arm up and pulls him into a hug.

“Isaac? He’s in here…” Scott calls over his shoulder.

“Isaac?” Stiles asks, suddenly feeling annoyed that Scott was asking him to intrude on an intimate moment.

“He’s sorting the lights out,” Scott tells him. Stiles catches the shocked look on Isaac’s face as he appears in the doorway and Stiles is suddenly acutely aware that he’s in a state of undress. He shies away, hiding his distress into Scott’s shirt. “We just got back into Beacon Hills when something didn’t feel right. I actually heard your heartbeat. I made them stop the bus and then Isaac and I ran all the way here. We were only a few streets away when we heard you scream.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, glancing around him. “Jeremy…?”

He knows it’s not him. He knows it. But he has to say it out loud. To voice it. Because the alternative meant something else entirely.

“No,” Scott agrees, sniffing discreetly around him before pulling Stiles closer to him and taking a bigger whiff. “This doesn’t smell like him.”

“What does this mean?” Isaac is the one to ask although it’s pretty clear to all present.

“It means we have someone else to worry about.”

And stiles shudders and shakes and realises he should have listened to his dad all along.

 

* * *

 

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tara?” Stiles voice shakes out of him. He hesitates for a second, hands trembling out in front of him, before he suddenly finds himself stumbling the last few steps to her, dropping heavily to his knees. He doesn’t know if she’s alive or not but his hand automatically clamps over the bloodied patch across her chest. Her body flinches as soon as his hand makes contact, a pained rattle of a breath escaping, and he jumps in surprise. _She’s alive._ “It’s okay,” he says even though it’s not. He hopes she doesn’t notice how his breath cracks and hitches on a sob (she doesn’t, he tells himself, she can hardly breathe, Stiles. Get your shit together). “You’re okay.”
> 
> “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” a voice says from his left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a terrible estimator. I can't estimate for my life. On a plus note, I now have enough for a 6th chapter (maybe an epilogue too, although SEE: Terrible Estimator). I may also turn it into a series because i'm kind on planting a few seeds for another story along the way.
> 
> Unto the story... The stalker is revealed, TW for blood and dead bodies, I guess. And there's some talk about bad-touching.

 

_Chapter 5_

 

John arrives to flashing lights and sirens.

He finds Stiles on the couch, wrapped in a throw, and looking as shaky as hell. Scott’s sat next to him, arm around his shoulder’s protectively, and a paramedic on her knees in front of them. She has both of Stiles hands – bloodied and scratched – in her own blue gloved covered ones.

“Stiles!” he barks, pushing past one of his surprised deputies. Stiles jumps, the blanket dropping from his shoulder, revealing small bloodied and blotchy droplets littering his shirt. Stiles turns his face, protests and reassurances already starting to form on his lips, revealing a freshly grazed cheek and a swollen eye. “Jesus…” he wheezes out, rushing forward and reaching out towards his son.

“I’m fine, dad…” Stiles says weakly and despite the words he still slumps into his side. He catches sight of Scott picking the blanket up and re-wrapping it around Stiles shoulder. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” he growls out, throat constricting. He runs his hand up and down the blanket tentatively, feeling the tremors through the double-layered material. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles repeats flatly, robotically, voice muffled into John’s shirt. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

He sounds like he’s going into shock.

“How hurt is he?” John redirects the question to the paramedic. Her name tag reads Anna.

“He’ll live,” she says, smiling sympathetically. She releases Stiles hands gently who tries to withdraw them and tuck them into safe confines of the blanket he’s cocooned himself in. John immediately catches them in his own and turns them over, staring at the small bloodied cuts and scratches adorning his palm. “He’s got a lot of superficial cuts from the broken glass,” Anna says even as he glances back towards the kitchen, spotting the shattered remains glistening across the floor. “Most of it is on his hands and back. Some on his side too. Obviously the black-eye and graze to the cheek. Nothing looks broken though. And there’s a nasty looking bump on the back of his head. Looks like he hit it pretty hard. I’d feel better if he got checked out at the hospital but Stiles is refusing.”

“Stiles…” he says, nudging him a little. His voice hardens in authority despite it still shaking. “You’re going to the hospital.”

Stiles shakes his head and mutters “no.”

“I’ll give you a minute alone,” Anna offers, gathering her equipment and retreating to her partner and deputy.

“Stiles…” he starts again.

“I broke a vase,” Stiles says instead. Scott glances over his head at him worriedly.

“It’s okay,” he shushes him, pulling him tighter.

“It was mom’s,” Stiles says, voice still flat and detached. So _that_ was what the broken glass was.

“I never liked the thing anyway. Your mother thought it was really ugly. You’ve probably done us all a favor.”

“Mom loved it,” Stiles says, voice cracking.

“I don’t care about the damn vase, Stiles…” John snaps at him. He jostles him, bracing his face gently because of the obvious tender swelling already shaping into place, and bringing Stiles eyes into direct line with his own. “I care about you.”

“I’m tired,” he repeats quietly. “Can’t you make them all go? I just want to go to bed.”

John bites his lip and pulls Stiles against him again.

“What the hell happened?” he asks Scott over the top of his son’s head.

“I… don’t know?” Scott shakes his head, face pale and terror struck. “He was attacked. I must have scared whoever it was off when I came in.”

“He was here,” Stiles mutters at them. “He was waiting for me. The lights went out and… and…”

“And?” John prompts. (He knows his deputy should be getting this. Getting an official statement. But he needs to know. And he needs to know NOW).

“He touched me,” Stiles admits tearfully, eyes watering. “After he threw me down on the floor. Like a bad-touch touch.”

“What?” It’s Scott who speaks, looking horrified, rage filling his usually warm features.

“Stiles?” John asks, trying to keep his voice sounding calm and levelled. The last thing he wanted was to freak Stiles out even further, retreating back into trained officer mode. “This is important,” he says, encouraging him further. “Are you trying to say he sexually assaulted you?”

“I don’t know?” he says, shaking his head, sounding genuinely confused. “He said he wasn’t enjoying it. That he was just trying to remind me who was in control.”

“That’s what sexual assault is normally about,” Scott speaks up and John glances at him, surprised at his response. It’s quite something for a kid of his age to differentiate between the two. “Most rape is about control, not sex.”

“I wasn’t raped,” Stiles snaps at him, stiffening.

“I know,” Scott says nervously. He tries to place a placating hand on his shoulder but withdraws it quickly when Stiles flinches away. “It’s just that…”

“I don’t know what it was,” Stiles snaps even further. “It was just fucking weird, okay?”

“Stiles…” John tries to intervene and then glances at Scott again. “Maybe you should go home, Scott. We’ll call you later.”

Scott looks torn but then reluctantly agrees.

“Okay. I gotta call my mom anyway.”

“Great,” Stiles mutters miserably. “Isn’t my life a public soap opera already?”

John watches Scott leave, only now aware that the Lahey kid is waiting for him by the door, before turning back to Stiles.

“Don’t be like that with him, Stiles…” he says, trying to get Stiles to refocus on him. “He’s just worried about you. And, if I’m not mistaken, he might just have saved your life.”

Stiles actually snorts at that, rolling away and dropping his head against the back of the couch. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says, dropping a heavy and quivering hand across his eyes. “Just send everyone home, dad…” Stiles pleads at him, voice catching.

“We’re going to the hospital first,” John reminds him, tugging the hand away. “And then you’ll be able to go to bed.”

He’s not sure about sleeping though. Stiles had never been good at it on a good day and lately everything was just getting worse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His face isn’t broken.

He doesn’t need stitches.

He doesn’t even have a concussion.

He’s not sure why he’s so pissed about it. It should be a good thing, right? That he’s not permanently disfigured or – you know – dead but Stiles just can’t seem to get past the fact that he’s relatively unharmed after one of the most horrifying nights of his life.

In fact the only thing reminiscent of the assault was a lingering head-ache that had lasted for two days and the dis-coloring to his black-eye that was still adorning the side of his face.

It’s now a week after and Stiles still hasn’t returned to school. He figures it’s safer inside then out (yeah, ironic really, considering the threat had been on the _inside_ that night) courtesy of Stiles triple checking all the doors and windows and the fact that his dad had gone particularly military on his ass and made sure he had his own personal security at any one moment. Currently this involves Scott, brandishing a stack of books and what looks like a semester’s worth of homework, and his father’s blatant disregard for department budgets, with a cruiser situated outside the house whenever his dad had to work.

Between his dad and Melissa’s frequent check-ins and Scott, Allison, Lydia and even, surprisingly, Isaac’s round-robin visits, Stiles was never alone for long.

Derek was strangely absent though. He at least thought he’d get some welfare check after the attack considering he’d been all up in Stiles business after the Jeremy thing. But nothing. Not one visit, call or text and Scott was none the wiser either.

“Dude, seriously…” Scott mutters at him, dumping the bundle of books and papers into his arms. “I’m sure if you came back now you’d have _less_ work to do.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, reluctantly agreeing and then jumps when he hears a bang from above them. The books and papers flutter around them. “What was that?”

“No, it’s okay,” Scott’s arm shoots out and squeezes his arm.  “Don’t be mad?”

Stiles turns suspicious eyes towards his friend who shrugs. “He couldn’t exactly come through the front door.”

“It’s only me,” Derek’s voice reaches him before he sees him.

“Do I need to buy you bells?” he yells out.

“I was deliberately loud,” Derek says, rounding the corner. He stops just short of entering the room, leaning against the frame. “So you would know I’m here.”

“Loud and scary noises,” Stiles points out, head nodding away sarcastically. “In the house that I was just attacked and assaulted in. Yeah, thanks for that buddy.”

Scott looks a little sheepish before his phone blares to life.

“Ah… I have to get this…” he says, waving the phone before stepping out into the hallway and whispering suspiciously.

There would have been a time when Stiles would have tried to listen or just blatantly follow him but he’s too tired for this. Besides he has something more pressing to deal with right now.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands. It comes out accusatory. Hostile and bitter. But he has reasons. Ones he’s not willing to share with Derek right now. “I thought you were on security detail or something,” Stiles mutters waving his hand away in a vague and non-directive gesture.

“I was out of commission for a while,” Derek offers non-helpfully.

“Out of commission?” Stiles asks, feeling a little worry creep in. “As in…”

“As in nearly dead,” Derek finishes abruptly as though that was the end of it.

“Oh,” Stiles says, feeling his earlier prissy fit fall flat. “What happened?”

“It’s dealt with. You don’t need to worry,” Derek dismisses him. He looks around him, eyes gazing past him towards the kitchen as though to see if there was any evidence left. There’s not. It’s been over a week. His dad’s righted the furniture and cleaned the glass. There was nothing left to indicate anything even happened. “Scott told me what happened.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, immediately taking a step back when Derek takes one forward.

“That doesn’t look fine,” Derek mutters, grabbing his chin and turning it sideways to scrutinise the swollen bruising around his eye. “Looks like you got hit pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles repeats roughly. He doesn’t try and pull away until Scott ambles in, coming to a stilted stop when he’s realised he’s interrupted something, and Stiles takes the opportunity to shove Derek away.

“I have to go –“ Scott says, looking between the two of them. “- help Deaton with something.”

“Why?” Stiles asks worriedly, coming back to himself. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing too bad,” Scott reassures him quickly. “Just a few ideas Deaton’s had about the sacrifices,” he hesitates a second before continuing. “You can come if you want.”

Stiles quickly shakes his head and busies himself with picking the loose papers up from his feet.

“Do you need me?” Derek asks.

“No, you won’t be any help. I’ll call you later,” Scott says before disappearing out of the door.

“Ouch,” Stiles says from where he’s still crouched around the textbooks and papers. “That’s got to hurt.”

Derek doesn’t respond and ends up crouching with him, helping to stack the papers up.

“Scott said you haven’t been going out.”

“Did he?” he asks absentmindedly, standing and straightening. He dumps the papers and books on the coffee table.

“When are you going back to school?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Soon? I can’t stay home forever, can I?”

“This place smells too much like you,” Derek says with grimace. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Stiles immediately tenses and he shakes his head.

“No.”

“When was the last time you went out?”

“Besides going to the hospital?” Stiles asks and watches how Derek raises his eyebrows comically. “Just the once. Grocery store with my dad. It didn’t end well.” He glosses over the fact that it actually resulted in massive panic attack in the passenger seat of the jeep.

“I get that,” Derek says and although he doesn’t specify _what_ he gets from Stiles brisk details, he genuinely believes Derek understands it. It’s a relief to feel and Stiles starts to breathe easier. “But this isn’t healthy. It’s just going to make the feeling worse…”

“I know that,” Stiles says. “I know it’s unhealthy. But I keep thinking he’s out there. Watching me. Knowing who I am… and it could be anyone and I wouldn’t even know,” he pauses and takes a gulp, watches how his fingers tremble against the papers. “I don’t want him to have control like that. I want to live my life.”

“So, why not start now?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs, glancing away to the window. It’s twilight out, not quite dark.

“You’ll be with me. You’ll be safe.”

Stiles looks at Derek sceptically. “Look, my dad might be happy to have you as Kevin Costner to my Whitney, but I’m pretty sure the deputies out there would shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Whitney? Really?” Derek asks amused.

“My dad’s just using you for your body,” Stiles continues, trying to redirect. “If you had any pride left you’d just leave.”

“Not happening, Stiles…” Derek says, pushing past him and heading towards the kitchen. “How about the garden then? A few times around the perimeter?”

“I…” Stiles starts to protest.

_It’s my garden._

_It’s part of my house_

“Okay,” Stiles concedes and nods at him.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. They’re already on their third trip around, the itchy feeling of anxiety subsiding away, when he starts to shiver.

“You’re cold,” Derek states. He starts to shuck out of his jacket.

“How chivalrous of you,” Stiles eyes the jacket with both amusement and disdain. “But hell no.”

“Take it,” Derek orders sharply and Stiles smirks at the familiarity of the abruptness.

“I like it,” Stiles says, shaking his head. He stops at an old and rickety wooden bench his dad had put there a year or so before his mom died and stares down at the goose-bumps raising across his flesh. “It makes me feel alive.”

Derek doesn’t say anything and sits next to him, the wood groaning and creaking under the added pressure, but it still holds them once they’ve settled.

“It’s too quiet,” Stiles says after a few minutes of silence. “Say something.”

“About what?”

“Anything,” Stiles says with a shrug. “Whatever you want. Just not about me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything at first and the longer the silence stretches out the more Stiles thinks Derek is refusing to comply with his request. It’s not until he heaves a put upon a sigh that he hears Derek mumble something next to him.

“What?”

“I said I think I have a date.”

“You think?”

“It’s complicated,” he says and Stiles feels the corners of his mouth turn up when he realises there’s a small blush to the older man’s cheeks. “Her name’s Jennifer Blake…”

 _Blake Blake Blake Blake_ the name runs through his head and tunes out the rest of what Derek is saying.

“Ms. Blake?” Stiles asks stupidly. “As in my English Teacher.”

“Uh…” Derek stutters to a stop. “I guess she is.”

“Great,” Stiles mutters. “I won’t be able to look at her again. She already weirds me out. She’s always staring me down like she’s reading my soul or something.”

“Really...?” Derek says distractedly.

“You’re not thinking about that pencil skirt and high heels she’s always wearing, are you?” Stiles asks and then shakes his head a little too nervously when Derek looks at him bemusedly. “Not that I ever think about her in those. Ever. Nope, not me.”

Stiles pokes him in the side with his finger. “This is seriously not the time to be getting your sexual fantasies on.”

Derek pushes the hand away and smirks. Just a little.

“Oh,” Stiles says, grinning. “You’ve already done it,” and when Derek refuses to say anything at all Stiles says, “Yep, you had sex for sure,” Stiles pauses and then thinks about _everything._ “Wait, hang on a second… you just said you were nearly dead. Was she with you? Oh my god, did my English teacher nearly sex you to death?”

“No, Stiles…” Derek says with a roll of the eyes. “She didn’t sex me to death. It was kind of the opposite actually.”

Stiles doesn’t actually have a response to that and Derek doesn’t offer an explanation.

“Okay,” Stiles declares finally clamping a hand over his ears. “Executive decision; I don’t want to know. Already too much information shared.”

“You asked.”

“You could have lied,” Stiles says and then because he can’t think of anything else to say adds “She weirds me out, Derek. I kinda have a vibe about these things.”

“Yeah,” Derek snippily asks. “Like you did about Jeremy?”

Stiles snaps his mouth shut.

“I’m going back inside now,” he says in a clipped manner.

“Stiles… I’m sorry,” Derek tries, attempting to follow.

Stiles manages to close the door behind him, effectively telling Derek to _fuck off._ “Go Home, Derek.”

He watches Derek fumble for words and then give a defeated nod. Stiles wait until he’s vaulted over the back of the garden wall before sliding down and leaning against the back-door. He kind of deserved it. He was being a little shit, but it had been the truth, and now he’s alone with just his mind for company.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles returns to School the third week after his attack. He’s over most of his jitteriness, much to his dad’s relief, and Stiles was actually glad. He had started to go a little bit stir-crazy back there for a while. There’s only so much staring at his ceiling and the worried frowns his father gives him before the itch to just _get out_ and _leave_ overwhelms the need for the safe confines of his bed covers.

His dad insists he gets a police escort to and from school whenever he himself can’t drive him. His dad gives this privilege to himself today, his first day back, and Stiles is immediately aware of the stares he’s getting.

“Thanks for the ride, dad…” Stiles mutters.

“Hey,” his dad protests, snagging his arm and pulling him back into the seat. His hand ghosts over his head before clasping the back of his neck.

“Are you okay, kid?”

Stiles nods and averts his eyes down into his lap.

“You don’t need to go back if you don’t feel ready.”

“Yes, I do…” Stiles laughs dryly, lifting his head and offering a small, tight smile in reassurance. “I _do_ actually have to graduate dad. Besides, I’m getting way behind.”

“Just call me if you want to leave early,” his dad insists. “I’ll come and pick you up.”

“Sure thing,” Stiles says, levering the door open. He might be a little on the paranoid side, but he’s sure the outside world had just, suspiciously, gone quiet. “But nothing’s going to happen. Not at school.”

_Nothing’s going to happen. Not here. Not at home. Scott’s here. He has arsenal of werewolves at his disposal. He’s safe._

“Call me,” his dad shouts after him.

When he gets into the hallway it’s even worse. He tries to shy away at his locker, flipping his hood up in an attempt to block out the hushed whispering just off to the side. He doesn’t want to turn. He _can’t_ turn.

“He rides in police cruisers all the time,” a loud and familiar voice announces from behind. It’s normally much more obnoxious. “He’s the Sheriff’s kid. Get over it.”

He feels a heavy weight as a long arm settles over his shoulders and Stiles tenses for a few seconds before forcibly trying to flex it out of his tense frame.

“Hey,” Stiles says, voice sounding scratchy and unused. He waits until the crowd gets bored and starts to disperse before he acknowledges him. “Thanks Isaac.”

“No problem,” Isaac says with a roll of his eyes. He pulls his arm away and straightens up. He takes a few steps away before turning back and frowning when he realises Stiles has yet to move. “Are you going to class or what? I’m not getting a detention for you,” Stiles blinks in surprise, nodding. “Good because you’ll feel even worse if you’re the last one in.”

It’s so much like Derek’s _‘It’s just going to make the feeling worse…’_ that he wonders if this was Isaac or his alpha talking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is the first to notice that Erica is missing. At least he thinks he is. Maybe he was just the first to say it out aloud.

“Erica’s missing,” he announces to Scott when he realises he’s not seen her in days.

Scott doesn’t respond.

“Dude, did you hear what I said?” Stiles asks, grabbing Scott’s arm to prevent him from rummaging in his locker.

“I heard you,” Scott says quietly. “Don’t get involved.”

“Wha-? Don’t get involved? We need to call Derek.”

“Derek’s aware,” Scott sighs loudly, pulling his arm away. “He – we – didn’t want you to know. You’ve got enough to deal with right now.”

“If you hadn’t noticed,” Stiles whispers furiously, trying and failing to keep his arms from exaggerating his irritation. “There’s a freaking alpha pack and _sacrificial_ murders. I think I have a right to know when one of my friends is missing.”

“Friend?” Scott asks sceptically, encouraging him to continue with his eyebrows.

“Kinda,” Stiles admits, mumbling a little, looking down at his worn sneakers. “We had a moment.”

“We’ll find her,” Scott says firmly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ll try,” Scott says instead and Stiles nods, playing with the strap of his backpack.

“What about Boyd?” he asks. “He’s not taking my calls.”

“He’s with Derek. I guess he’s just doing what Derek asked.”

“You guys shouldn’t have kept this from me,” Stiles reminds him, pushing past and taking a few steps away. He stops with his back to Scott, holding the two straps tightly in his hands, knowing he could still hear him. “I don’t care how much shit I’m going through – if something bad is happening, I want to be there, I want to help in whatever way I can.”

Scott rounds around him, searching his eyes, nodding and looking guilty. “I know,” he says nodding. “It was a bad call. I’m sorry.”

Stiles spends his next class staring at the back of Erica’s empty seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His dad is working late and Scott has Lacrosse practice so it’s just him and the cruiser outside. It’s that time of the evening – already dark outside – that falls into a depressing lull. Scott was due to come over and discuss everything he knew about Erica’s disappearance but, according to the abbreviated text he’d just got _[rng L8 prtc strtd L8 b/c of Gnbrg. Cll wn fnshd],_ that didn’t look like it would be for a while.

He’s bored out of his mind when he decides he’ll try and call Derek, intent on calling him out on his bullshit decision to keep him out the loop, only to realise somewhere through his rant that the timing might be inappropriate. Predictably it goes to voicemail. “Okay, see the thing is, I’m not a little kid. I don’t need to take baby steps,” he paces back and forth in front of the lounge window. “I’m not going to break if I hear something bad. And I sure as hell don’t need you making decisions for me,” he paces left then right, levelling his breath. It’s on his third turn that he spots something out in the street. Or to be more precise; a _lack_ of something. “Shit,” he breathes into the phone. “I have to go.”

He disconnects and immediately redials his dad’s number.

“Stiles?” his dad answers straight away causing Stiles to stutter out a breath of relief.

“Did you scale down the security detail without telling me?”

He knows his dad’s been thinking about it. There’s only so much of department budget that can be spent and he doesn’t want to be another reason for his dad losing his job, especially if the county realise he’s been spending it on his own son.

“What? No. Why?” his dad’s urgent voice hits him hard and Stiles sucks in an uncertain breath. “Stiles?” his dad asks. “Talk to me.”

“The cruiser,” he says, fear pitching up from his stomach. “It’s gone.”

“Shit, shit, shit…” his dad murmurs urgently. “Okay, kid. Just stay there while I try and find out what’s going on. I’ll have a cruiser back there in no time.”

He hears the sound of rustling papers. A muffled shout as his dad calls for someone. It’s distant and faint but Stiles can still just about make out _‘SOMEONE TELL ME WHERE THE HELL RODGRIGUES AND ANDERSON HAVE GONE…’_

“No,” Stiles insists, already moving and rummaging through a bowl where he thinks he last saw his keys. “I’m taking the Jeep and coming straight to you.”

“No, Stiles. I don’t know what I’m dealing with. Stay where you are.”

“I’ll be safer in my Jeep on my OWN than in a house that I’ve already been attacked in,” Stiles says, already out of the front door and halfway across the lawn to his Jeep. He fumbles with the keys, struggling to unlock it. “Scott’s at practice. He won’t get any messages until at least another half hour. I’m not staying here dad. Not if something hooky is going on.”

“Okay,” his dad sighs loudly in his ear. “Drive straight here. Don’t stop for anyone. Call me when you’re outside the station and I’ll meet you at your Jeep.”

He drives faster than he should.

He also shouldn’t use his phone while driving at the speed he is, but he does it all the same. He ends up leaving a message for Scott, breaths tight, words pinched with fear.

_“Scott? The police cruiser outside my house has just disappeared and my dad doesn’t know why. I’m not taking any chances and staying at home. I’ve taken my jeep. Meet me at the station.”_

He gets no answer from his dad when he finally gets to the station and a feeling of foreboding floods his stomach, leaving him feeling nauseated. He redials another two times when another five minutes pass and still there’s no response. The windows of the jeep start to fog up from his increased breaths and he clutches at the steering wheel when the flutter in his stomach rolls again, dread rising with it.

“I’m going to fucking regret this,” he mutters to himself when he eventually opens the jeep door. The night sky is chilly, but Stiles doesn’t feel it against the warm flush that breaks out across the back of his neck.

The station door is open slightly. Already his alarm bells start to ring. Out of hours you’re supposed to be buzzed in. He steps in with trepidation, eyes searching around him, and seeing nothing but a lack of _anyone_ on desk duty.

“Hello?” he asks softly, afraid of calling out too loudly.

He wants to leave. He knows he should leave. He should totally get the fuck out of here right now. But his dad’s here and he can’t.

He doesn’t call out again because there’s a small bloodied hand-print on the counter just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

His breath freezes in his mouth, not wanting to move any further, only his legs have their own agenda and he feels himself numbly step further around the front desk.

Officer Graeme is there, crumpled on the floor, in such a similar way to how he’d found Amber that for a second he thinks he’s back to that day with Matt pressing the nuzzle of the gun against his temple. There’s a streak of blood just in front of his sneakers that lead to her body indicating she’d been dragged to where her body lay.

“Tara?” Stiles voice shakes out of him. He hesitates for a second, hands trembling out in front of him, before he suddenly finds himself stumbling the last few steps to her, dropping heavily to his knees. He doesn’t know if she’s alive or not but his hand automatically clamps over the bloodied patch across her chest. Her body flinches as soon as his hand makes contact, a pained rattle of a breath escaping, and he jumps in surprise. _She’s alive._

“It’s okay,” he says even though it’s not. He hopes she doesn’t notice how his breath cracks and hitches on a sob (she doesn’t, he tells himself, she can hardly breathe, Stiles. Get your shit together). “You’re okay.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” a voice says from his left.

Stiles doesn’t let go of Tara.

But he turns his head, breath slowly escaping him.

A pair of sneakers look back at him. Behind the sneakers, just like that night with Matt, there’s at least two bodies lying slumped in the small hallway.

He drags his eyes up and away until he’s looking at a familiar maroon uniform and he blinks in surprise. The sudden unexpectedness of it causes his breath to escape in a rush.

“What?” he asks in disbelief, staring at the face that leers down at him. “You?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Scott finishes Lacrosse later than everyone else thanks to the Coach declaring suicide runs for his supposed distraction. Scott has to admit, coming to the end of his last run, that he had been a bit off his game, thinking about Erica and worried as he would be late getting to Stiles.

Isaac waits for him at the bench, the others already hitting the showers, following him as he rushes through the doors to the locker room.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I just got to get to Stiles,” he says, bumping past a few of their team mates and ignoring Jackson’s protest.

“Scott,” Isaac says, roughly dragging him away so that they were leaning against a set of lockers. “What’s going on? You look antsier than normal. I feel… like you’re going to change.”

They both seem surprised by this and Scott shrugs biting his lip in worry. “There was this time a while back, just before Erica had her seizure and fell off the rock-wall, that I had a feeling something was about to happen.”

“And?” Isaac asks, worry flooding his features.

“And… I think I feel it again. Like something bad is about to happen,” he says, sucking in a breath. He takes another sniff, nose flaring at the sudden familiarity there. “Can you smell that?”

“Smell what?” Isaac ask, sniffing in. “All I’m getting is bad body odour and testosterone. A lot of it.”

“Whose locker is this?” Scott asks, shoving Isaac away. He cracks the door open with a flick of his wrist, ignoring Isaac’s hiss of a warning.

“Scott…” Isaac protests.

“Whose is it?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac admits, eyes widening when Scott pulls out a pair of pants. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Dude?” a nervous laugh rings by. “Why are you smelling Greenberg’s pants?”

“Greenberg?” Scott whirls around, zeroing in on Danny. “This is Greenberg’s locker?”

“Yeah?” Danny laughs nervously again. “Why?”

“Shit,” Scott snaps, banging the locker door close. “Where is he?”

“He must have left early. I didn’t see him come in from the field.”

“McCall? Is there a reason you’re assaulting my lockers?” Finstock asks, appearing from the back office.

“Coach?” Scott demands, throwing the pants into Isaac’s bewildered hands. “Did Greenberg tell you to get Stiles off the team?”

The Coach looks at him surprise, quirking his eyebrows, and nods. “Not in so many words, but yeah he did,” he laughs and scratches his head in bemusement. “First time the kid’s actually made any sense. Why? Is something wrong?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it, Coach…” Scott says. He doesn’t say anything further even though he should probably do so.

Coach smiles confusedly at them, mumbling “You kids,” before ambling off.

He’s halfway dressed when Jackson appears at his side.

“What’s going on McCall?”

“I picked up a scent the night Stiles was attacked,” he says quietly, nodding at where Isaac was tentatively sniffing the pants. “I just picked it up again in Greenberg’s locker.”

“Greenberg?” Jackson says in bewilderment. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Scott nods.

“Fuck… shit…” Jackson mutters, pacing away. A look of guilt flashes across his face before he places a somewhat restrained punch to a random locker door.

“Jackson?” Scott asks, eyeing him in suspicion. “If you know something, you better start speaking now.”

“The night before he was attacked…” Jackson says reluctantly, averting his eyes to somewhere above Isaac’s head. “Stilinski was with me and Danny. We took him to Jungle. Greenberg roofied him.”

“What?” Scott asks incredulously, anger flooding him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“I handled it, okay? Stilinski slept it off at mine. Greenberg walked around with a black eye because of it. He said it was just for shit and giggles, that he was just trying to loosen him up. If I thought it had been more malicious, I would have come to you.”

“You let him go home by himself?” Isaac asks angrily, advancing on him. “I might not be best buddies with the guy but even I…”

“Take it easy,” Scott says with a calmer voice than he felt, hand clasping tightly around Isaac’s arm. Isaac instantly stills in the hold.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson says. It sounds genuine. “I didn’t know.”

“Wait a minute,” Isaac says, frowning in thought. “Coach just said it was Greenberg who reminded him of the tape,” his eyes widened at a sudden realisation. “What tape? No one has ever mentioned a tape. We’ve only ever seen photos.”

Jackson sighs loudly but when Scott looks away from Isaac he sees that Jackson is actually staring at Danny.

“Do you want to tell them?”

Danny’s looking wide-eyed and confused.

“Danny?” Scott prompts, his patience running out.

“He said it wasn’t him. He promised,” Danny says, shaking his head, face paling by the second. “He denied it was even on the tape.”

“You know what, save it for later,” Scott snaps. He doesn’t have the time to find out how Danny is involved in this. He needs to get hold of Stiles. “I need to warn Stiles.”

He rummages through his pants until he finds his phone, instantly seeing a missed call and a message from Stiles. The feeling, the foreboding, increases ten-fold and he clasps his hands into fists.

“What is it?”

“The bad feeling from before?” Scott says, head snapping up and looking Isaac in the eyes as he listens to Stiles message. “I think it’s already happening.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Greenberg

Greenberg

Greenberg

He’s still in his Lacrosse jersey and shorts. Mud splatters his legs.

“I told you not to do that,” Greenberg says and when Stiles doesn’t comply, hands still clamped tightly across Tara’s wound, he grabs him painfully by the hair. Stiles feels himself being dragged backwards, feet struggling to find purchase until he’s forced into something hard, back and shoulders painfully digging into wooden shelves. “I told you.”

Greenberg

It’s Greenberg

And there’s a huge kitchen blade being pressed against his throat.

 

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I thought I was saving her. I thought he wouldn’t hurt her. But he did it anyway.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to say anything more about under-estimating. Nothing at all.
> 
> \---
> 
> So this chapter is my homage to the S2's 'Fury'. This is actually what I kind of wanted to happen with Matt, but seeing as he's dead already, we're substituting him for Greenberg instead.
> 
> Trigger Warning: This features a bloody attack and murder, so it might be triggering. There's a lot of blood.

 

 

_Greenberg_

_He’s still in his Lacrosse jersey and shorts. Mud splatters his legs._

_“I told you not to do that,” Greenberg says and when Stiles doesn’t comply, hands still clamped tightly across Tara’s wound, he grabs him painfully by the hair. Stiles feels himself being dragged backwards, feet struggling to find purchase until he’s forced into something hard, back and shoulders painfully digging into wooden shelves. “I told you.”_

_Greenberg_

_It’s Greenberg_

_And there’s a huge kitchen blade being pressed against his throat._

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Greenberg?” Stiles asks stupidly, panic lodged firmly in his throat.

“Surprise!” Greenberg whispers quietly into his ear before stepping away. He grins widely as he steps away. There’s a streak of blood across one side of his face and evidence of a fading black eye on the other.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, shock intermingling with an acute need to _focus_ on everything. His eyes glance over at Tara before darting around the room. He tries to catalogue every aspect of danger, every possible escape route, any possible clue about where his dad might be before there’s a flash of metal in the peripheral of his vision. The knife’s there again, precariously close to his eye.

“Don’t,” Greenberg warns with a steady tone, ignoring the question. Stiles flinches as he points the tip of the blade closer. He straightens up, dragging the blade down his face. It feels cold and wet against his skin. “Don’t try anything.”

He watches as Greenberg steps back towards Tara, holds his breath still as he sees him detach the handcuffs from her belt.

“Why?” Stiles asks, voice cracking as his hand is roughly grabbed and slammed against the slim pipe that runs down the side of the front desk, clicking the cuffs into place before unnecessary tightening it against his skin. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to you to watch her bleed out,” he hisses at him, face looming close, words hot against his skin, spittle touching his face. Stiles turns away, scrunching his eyes shut. “Look at her, Stiles…” he feels a hand wind into his hair again, head being tugged back. “Open your eyes.” He does but he refuses to look at the deputy on the other side of the room. “I want you to watch her die. And when she does I’ll just take another one. Your friends. Your family. Anyone who means anything to you. I’ll take everything and you’ll have no one left. You’ll be all on your own.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Stiles tries to reason with him. He’s not sure he can. The person before him looks mad, blood streaked across his cheek, eyes wild, waving a knife between them.

“I don’t, huh?” Greenberg asks quizzically, frown sliding into place as he once again stands up and looks down at him. He shakes his head and points the blade down. “You don’t know what I want. You don’t even know what I’m capable of. This…” he gestures to the chaos around them. “… was a surprise. You underestimated me, Stilinski.”

He’s right. He had.

He knows he’s in over his head. He knows it probably won’t amount to anything but he tries to struggle against the cuffs again. If he stalls long enough then maybe there’s still time for the cavalry to arrive.

“Why?” Stiles dares to ask again, he risks looking directly at him, refusing to tear his eyes away. “Why do you want all those things?”

“No,” Greenberg snaps, suddenly kicking out with his foot. Stiles instantly tucks his legs up and rolls his body into the side of the desk, only to realise his mistake a few seconds later when he feels a pair of sneakers kick into his exposed side. It isn’t just one kick. It’s several rapid kicks fuelled by seething anger. “You, of all people, don’t get to ask that.”

“Get off me,” Stiles struggles again, trying to push himself up onto his feet. When that fails he simply curls into a ball. “Get the fuck off me.”

“Why the hell are you making this so hard?” Greenberg heaves a huge breath, the kicking coming to an abrupt stop.

“What?” Stiles asks incredulously, panting through his own struggle. He feels sweat bead against his forehead. “You just think I’m going roll over and die?”

“Yes,” Greenberg snaps. He paces back and forth in front of him. “Because that’s what you do, right? You roll over and let someone you hardly know fuck you, you roll over and let someone mess with you. You let them get in your head. And you just fucking hide. You don’t even try and fight back.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says hotly, although they’re questions he’s often asked himself.

“Because you’re weak. Because you’re pathetic…”

“So, we’ve clearly underestimated each other. What’s your point again?” he watches Greenberg raise his eyebrows in amusement. Stiles doesn’t raise to the bait and levels him with another stare. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Stiles snaps. “Just let me go. Get the fuck out of here while you still can.”

“It’s a little bit too late for that, don’t you think?” Greenberg asks, stepping away and pacing a little.

Stiles catches movement out of the side eye. Tara’s hand arches and flexes out, followed by a pained rattle as she breathes out. Stiles lurches forward before he’s painfully pulled back by the cuff, shoulder jarring against him.

“Get back!” Greenberg warns him.

He does as he’s told, more afraid at what might happen to Tara then what might happen to him.

“You can’t help her. Get that through your thick skull.”

“Please,” Stiles tries begging. “Don’t let her die. She’s got nothing to do with this. You can leave her outside, call for an ambulance. No one even needs to come inside.”

“No,” Greenberg says firmly. There’s a finality to it that Stiles knows he’s not going to win against. The pacing starts up again, faster than before. He watches as Tara curls her fingers inwards, dragging her nails against the hard floor. She’s dying and there’s nothing he can do to help her.

“Please,” Stiles begs again, feeling tears build up in his eyes. “Greenberg…”

“THAT’S NOT MY NAME!” he whirls around, eyes flaring in anger. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW MY FIRST NAME?”

Stiles flinches at the sudden rage and pushes against the wooden desk at his back.

“Do you even know mine?” Stiles asks instead, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds.

The question takes Greenberg aback and Stiles sees the moment that he flounders.

“You don’t know me,” Stiles reminds him. He swallows down his own uncertainty, ignoring a distant clanging and muffled yelling. “I’m not weak or pathetic and if you did know me you’d know that.”

The clanging and yelling gets louder until Stiles realises what – or who – it is.

“STILES!”

“IS THAT YOU?”

Greenberg’s floundering suddenly stops and his eyes harden.

“STILES? AWNSER ME, GODDAMNIT!”

Something in Greenberg’s demeanour changes. The controlled seething anger and rage is gone and instead something unhinged and panicked takes it places. He picks up the stride of pacing and plunges his hands to his head, bloodied knife held tightly against his face.

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU’VE HARMED A HAIR ON MY BOYS HEAD…”

“Shut him up,” Greenberg finally says when the yelling doesn’t let down. He comes to a stop at his feet, fishing a key out of his pocket. “No funny business.”

Stiles nods numbly, too afraid to actually move to try anything ‘funny’, and watches as Greenberg unlatches the cuff. There’s no way he’d run, not when his dad was still there.

Greenberg drags him up by his still sore arm and pulls him flush against him. He feels the knife pressed against his throat a second later.

His dad is still yelling. Near on screaming with rage and fear.

“Shut him up,” Greenberg hisses in his ear. “Or I’ll kill you and then the deputy.” Stiles nervously gulps against the blade as he feels the pressure increase against his throat. “And when you’re both dead I’ll go and slit your daddy’s throat.”

“Okay, okay…” Stiles breathes out, feeling his body start to shake. “Take it easy.”

“Tell him,” Greenberg shakes him. He feels the blade nip into his skin. “Tell him what I said.”

“DAD?” Stiles yells out.

“STILES? ARE YOU OKAY? ARE YOU HURT?”

“I’M FINE. I’M OKAY. BUT YOU GOTTA BE QUIET FOR ME.”

“STILES… IF HE’S HURT YOU…”

“I’M OKAY. I PROMISE. BUT IF YOU DON’T QUIETEN DOWN HE’S GONNA KILL ME AND HE’S ALREADY HURT DEPUTY GRAEME .”

“I’m going to kill her,” Greenberg quietly reminds him in his ear. “And then I’m going to slit his throat.”

Stiles resists the whine – the cry that wants to escape from his throat – and feels tears build in his eyes. He blinks and a few of them fall.

“AND HE’S GOING TO KILL HER. AND THEN YOU. HE’S GOING TO SLIT YOUR THROAT. SO YOU HAVE TO BE QUIET. YOU CAN’T SAY ANYTHING ELSE.”

There’s silence after. No rattling. No yelling.

Greenberg shoves him a little, not once releasing the pressure of the knife, so guesses that he wants confirmation.

“OKAY?”

He’s hoping that the silence is because his dad has miraculously freed himself and was at any minute going to barrel into the room, guns blazing.

“OKAY,” his dad yells back. So no miraculous rescue then. “JUST DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.”

Greenberg snorts and shoves Stiles back to the counter. He stumbles and grabs at it to stop him falling but no sooner has he found purchase Greenberg kicks his legs out from underneath him causing him to crumble to the floor in a heap. Before he can process anything else he’s back in the same position as before and handcuffed to the pipe.

He pushes his face into his knees and tries to hide the fact that he’s been crying. He’s all set on doing that, staying like that, and fulfilling Greenberg’s perception of him when something strikes him as odd – even odder than the fact that his classmate was wielding a bloodied knife in front of him – and he lifts his head turning to look in the direction where his father was being held.

His dad had been there, in the same exact room not even a year before, presumably cuffed to the wall just as he was then. He slowly turns and looks at the bloodied streak and drifts his gaze to where Tara now lay.

Greenberg giggles loudly, airy and carefree and a million miles away from his uncontrolled panic and rage a few moments before, seemingly delighted at the recognition flaring behind Stiles eyes.

“See anything familiar?” he asks, crouching in front of him. His voice is strangely soft and gentle. Stiles shakes his head despite the fact that he did and stares at the bloody streak on the floor instead, not wanting to look at Tara or Greenberg. “Sure you do. It’s near enough just like that night, isn’t it? Matt might have been a lot of things, but what he did that night… it was beautiful.”

“People died,” Stiles snaps at him, spitting it out with venom. “It was a tragedy.”

“No,” Greenberg smiles sadly at him, shaking his head. “It was perfect.”

“How do you know all this?” Stiles asks in a small voice, not even trying to hide the fresh tears that track down his face. His dad is in the _same_ room. Tara has been dragged to the _same_ spot that Amber had died. Clearly the deputies in the hall are supposed to represent the deputies who had died there that night. “How did you know where everyone was?”

“Your boyfriend was very helpful.”

Stiles snaps his head back at him. Greenberg is grinning smugly.

“He really fucking hated your guts before he left and was very amenable to my requests.”

Stiles gulps and wipes at his eyes. He wasn’t going to let this psycho douchebag know how upset and betrayed he felt right now. Sure, Jeremy had attacked him, but he’d been drunk at the time and he had hoped that somewhere deep down that he had cared for him, that he’d mistakenly felt betrayed by Stiles himself and the system that he had worked with.

This though? This was meant to hurt him. Maybe even kill him.

“I guess that night wasn’t completely perfect,” Greenberg continues. “If it was you’d already be dead and none of this would have happened.”

“So, are you saying that none of this is actually my fault?” Stiles asks dryly, eyebrows raising.

Greenberg laughs again. It’s so casual it could be mistaken for two buddies having a joke between them.

“No. It is your fault,” Greenberg settles on a thin grin and nods at him. “Every little last bit.”

“Do you really want this?” Stiles asks, intrigued by the need to know the answer and a hope that there was still some opportunity to appeal to him. “You want the first people you kill to be a bunch of cops. You’re not a killer.”

“You think they’re my first?” Greenberg laughs loudly, bouncing back on his haunches, genuinely amused.

It takes him by surprise and he has no idea how he’s supposed to respond. He desperately wants to put as much distance between himself and Greenberg as he can but every time he takes an inch Greenberg manages to fill the gap with his entire menacing body.

“You’ve killed someone?”

Greenberg nods distractedly as though it was nothing. He wets his finger and thumb with his mouth and runs it along the blade, smudging the drying and congealing blood between his skin. When he’s done he brings them back to his lips and licks it away.

“Who?”

“Heather,” he says with a shrug.

“What?” Stiles blinks in surprise before shaking his head. “No, she was… I don’t…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. She was supposed to be part of those ritualistic killings. I didn’t do the others. I just killed her.”

“You _just_ killed her?” Stiles shakes his head, anger again filling him. “But the wounds were the same.”

“I know. There was a lot of rumours flying around at school and you…” Greenberg says, pointing with the knife. “… and your little friends talk too loudly at times. It didn’t take a genius to google a threefold death.”

_A blow to the head_

_Strangulation by garrotting_

_And then I slit her throat_

Stiles closes his eyes, nausea rising, not wanting to see how Greenberg played with the knife, the blood on his lips or Tara’s, that was slowly spreading across the floor.

“She screamed for you when I took her,” he hears Greenberg say quietly, methodically. “She cried for her mommy and daddy.”

He feels hands grab at his face and wrench so that he was facing him again.

“So, to answer your question; yes I _want_ this,” Greenberg tells him, stares him right down until Stiles shivers under the scrutiny. “And once you’ve tasted it you can’t go back.”

“Why?” Stiles asks again, voice shaking. He tries to reach up with the back of his hand and wipe at the wetness to his face. Greenberg sighs and quietly puts the knife down – too far away for Stiles to make a grab for it – grasping his free hand in his own and stilling it. “Why are you doing this?

“Leave them,” he orders him. “I want to see you cry.”

“I don’t understand what I’ve done to make you do this,” Stiles tells him, staring at their hands, the way Greenberg was uncomfortably caressing the back of his own.

“I hate you,” Greenberg tells him after a few moments of silence. “You fucking ruined my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers out. Anger and resistance are not getting anywhere so he might as well try to appeal to another side completely. “I’m sorry I’ve done something to you. I’m sorry that I don’t even know what it is.”

“I know,” Greenberg says. He squeezes his hand before releasing it and scoots back, gathering the knife back up.

“So tell me,” Stiles insists. He dare not wipe at his face in case Greenberg reacts to it. “You hate me. What made you hate me so much that you killed because of it?”

“Seriously?” Greenberg scoffs, leaning against the opposite shelves.

Stiles nods and bites his lip in anticipation.

“Coach chose you over me,” Greenberg says. “The night of the lacrosse game. I worked so hard to get off the bench. I’m always early for practice. I always stay late to help put the gear away. I give him 110 %. Always. I give him goddamned birthday presents and he still chose you.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, more than a little dumbfounded. “This is about coach?”

“Do you know what it’s like?” Greenberg’s eyes flash at him. “To have your like taken away from you?”

“Dude, it was one game,” Stiles points out. Stiles couldn’t let himself believe that everything that had happened over the last few months was because Coach had picked him to play that night and not Greenberg. “I haven’t even played since.”

“Because you squandered the opportunity,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I wouldn’t have. I would have made the coach proud. You know what I get instead…?” he continues, stabbing the knife between them. “Coach talking shit about me to the rest of the team. Over and over. And you just walk up to him, ask him for another chance, bringing shame to the team like a little fucking Lolita and he just _gives_ it to you?”

“Wow,” Stiles says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Sounds like you have coach issues.”

“Don’t fucking analyse me,” Greenberg warns him.

“I’m not,” Stiles says with a stilted shrug. “If I was I’d take a stab in the dark and say this is typical transference and you have some serious daddy issues.”

“Shut up,” Greenberg lunges, grabbing him tightly around the face again, nails digging and pinching into the skin around his chin. “You don’t know anything.”

Greenberg finally releases the hold and Stiles pulls back roughly.

“I’m not an idiot, Stiles. That’s not the only reason I hate you.”

“Enlighten me,” Stiles winces out, rubbing his face.

“You fuck up all the time and no matter what you do everyone thinks you’re perfect,” Greenberg says with a shrug. He pulls the knife back, plays with the tip. “You skip class and still get A’s. You had a restraining order against you. You got your dad fired. You even had sex on his desk. And guess what? He still fucking forgave you. Heather still wanted to have sex with you. Jackson even dropped the complaint,” he shakes his head incredulously. “Jackson used to hate you and now you’re buddies? Fucking unbelievable.”

“This is about Jackson now?”

“Did you know I used to be friends with Jackson and Danny?” Greenberg asks him.

Stiles shakes his head. _No_ , he doesn’t remember that.

“Yeah, we used to be a trio and then Jackson got popular,” Greenberg sneers over the word. “And Danny was always popular. I was pushed to the side and forgotten about. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I knew who you were,” Stiles reminds him.

“No one knows who I am,” Greenberg raises his voice, just short of yelling. “I’m just the guy the coach hates. The punchline of the joke.”

“I don’t get it. Me and Jackson aren’t…”

“And then Danny starts showing concern for you,” Greenberg continues, ignoring him completely. “And I see you guys at Jungle. Do you know how I got this?” he asks, pointing at the fading bruise around his eye.

“Jackson?” Stiles slowly asks, remembering the bloodied and bruised knuckles when he’d awoken on Jackson’s bed. “You’re the one who roofied me?”

“Ta da,” Greenberg shrugs, mouth twitching in a small smile. “You’ve taken every spot I should have.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“What?

“I have ADHD and anxiety,” Stiles continues. It’s another stalling technique but most of what he’s going to say is near enough the truth. “I have panic attacks. I was there when my mom died – that pretty much screwed me up for life. My dad’s a borderline alcoholic and I _do_ keep messing up. He forgives me because I’m his son, not because he thinks I’m perfect. I’ve been abducted twice, held hostage, and beaten up. I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last a lifetime and on top of that my de-flowering was broadcast to the world and then I was publically and violently rejected. Not everyone likes me obviously.”

“Am I supposed to feel for you?” Greenberg sneers again.

“You want all that? You got it.”

“You think you’re really smart don’t you,” Greenberg shakes his head and waves the knife towards him again, an amused look across his features.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head quickly. “I just wanted you to hear it from my perspective.”

“Okay,” Greenberg finally nods, contemplating his words with a shrug. “I get that.”

He watches Greenberg rise up from the floor, spinning the knife in his hands.

“You do?” he asks nervously.

“Yeah,” Greenberg nods again, before tightening his hold around the knife handle and bringing it to his side, body stilling. “And now we’ve got all the exposition aside we can move on.”

“Move on? To what?” Stiles asks nervously.

“To the beginning,” Greenberg says, taking a step backwards. “To what I told you I originally wanted.”

Stiles eyes flash to the glinting knife in his hand and then slide down to look at Tara’s body. He doesn’t even know if she’s still alive. She hasn’t moved or made a sound for a while.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Stiles quickly says when he sees Greenberg take another step towards the deputy, clutching at straws – if that’s all he has left now he’s going to use every last one. “I hardly even know her.” It’s a lie. He’s known her for most of his life. She’d started there nearly two years before his mom had died. “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Greenberg pauses and glances back. He abruptly turns and strides back, anger fuelling his movements. Stiles cringes against the shelf when Greenberg crouches in front of him, knife grazing his cheek.

“I might be doing things that some might not approve of,” Greenberg spits. “But I never lie, Stiles.”

“It’s not a lie,” Stiles insists, the words heavy on his tongue. It doesn’t feel bad to lie, not when there’s a hope he might leave her alone. Even if she was already dead, he didn’t want her body to be decimated any further. “She doesn’t mean anything to me. Keep it for someone else.”

Greenberg lurches away, finds his feet and stalks back to where Tara lay.

“She doesn’t mean anything to you, huh?” Greenberg says in such a detached way that Stiles knows he’s made a mistake. The biggest mistake he’s made tonight.

“Greenberg? What…?” he asks, voice picking up, panic increasing. He struggles against the cuff again.

“Then it doesn’t matter either way,” Greenberg says with a casual shrug before plunging the knife down hard into the deputies chest cavity.

“No, No, NOOOOO!” Stiles doesn’t even try to be quiet anymore. He fights against the restraint, screaming and crying, feet kicking out from under him. Greenberg doesn’t stop there. He pulls the knife out and then plunges it in again and again. Over and over. “NOOOOOO!”

His dad starts yelling again, his own restraint clanging against metal, sparked by Stiles panic.

When Greenberg finally stops he turns and faces him. There’s a crazy amount of blood splattered over his face and neck, splatters and spray peppering his skin in the V of his lacrosse top.

“Do you think she’s dead now?” Greenberg asks him calmly, eyes wild and exhilarated despite how quiet and controlled his voice was. He walks back to Stiles, leaving bloodied prints from his sneakers as he does, and reaches down to his cuffed hand, releasing it. “Come check.”

Stiles gags and dry heaves, shaking his head vigorously and uttering “No…”

“Come check,” Greenberg orders again, voice hardening. He tugs hard, placing the wet blade flat against his throat again, dragging him forward. Stiles struggles, trying to twist out of the hold, only to have the blade press deeper against his rapidly gulping throat. He’s dumped near Tara’s body, pant legs soaking up her blood from where he’s kneeling. “Check.”

Greenberg sighs loudly when Stiles hesitates, hands trembling, and grabs at a hand, shoving it down near Tara’s neck. Stiles hands had already been bloody from where he had previously clamped down on her wound, but now they were slick with her blood.

“She’s dead,” Stiles says, quickly withdrawing his hand and staring at the blood that was adorned over it.

“Good,” Greenberg clucks happily next to him and withdraws the knife slightly. “Now it’s your daddy’s turn.”

Stiles doesn’t know where the energy comes from, but one second he’s on the floor in someone’s else blood and the next he’s on his feet, punching Greenberg hard in the face.

Greenberg’s obviously not expecting his sprightly assault and stumbles back, arms flailing wildly, but he doesn’t fall. He lunges forward towards Stiles, swiping with the knife and he knows he should run. There’s nothing between him and door. Either way someone was going to end up dead and he’d rather fight tooth and nail and have his own blood shed than his dad’s.

He’s considering just full on body-checking Greenberg and going for the knife when Greenberg takes another wild lunge forward. It surprises him though because he’s not aiming with the knife, instead choosing to back-hand him across the face. It’s the second time in his life that he’s been back-handed. It’s not as hard as Gerard’s, but the floor is wet with blood and his feet slide out from underneath him, leaving him spinning back towards the front desk. He goes down hard, head connecting with the corner of the desk as he falls.

Greenberg is on top of him before he can even think _blunt force trauma._ Stiles blinks rapidly, head fuzzy, just as Greenberg slashes down with the knife. He reaches out in instinct and catches the blade across his open palm before they both struggle to wrench it free. Greenberg swears, finally dragging it out from his curled fingers, causing Stiles to scream in pain.

The knife is flung to the side, surprising Stiles, and he takes a wild second to try and push at the weight on him, kicking and punching. None of it seems to faze Greenberg, who just grins down at him with a bloody smile, pinning Stiles flailing arms to the floor.

“Are you expecting something cliché?” Greenberg grits out over him. “Well, guess what Stiles,” he pants, hands retreating from his arms only to swiftly move to his throat and squeeze. “IF I CAN’T HAVE YOUR LIFE, NO ONE CAN!”

Stiles only has a second to think it doesn’t even make sense before any air he’d had was suddenly gone. Cut off. And he can’t breathe. He sees the knife. It’s just out of his reach and he arches and twists, hoping to shake Greenberg off, or at least snag the end of the knife.

It’s too far though, and the more he struggles, the more Greenberg squeezes and chokes him, so he gives up on the knife and tries, once again, to struggle against him. He weakly pushes up at Greenberg’s face, trying to shove his chin up. He’s already feeling his eyes start to bulge, the sound of his choked breathing fading to a horrifying wheeze. The room, lit with dull lights, is fading. Everything is going grey.

Stiles drags his hands away from Greenberg’s face to his chest and then to his own throat, curling weak fingers around the hands clamped around his throat, digging his nails in. But he can’t feel himself trying anymore.

He can feel the life being squeezed out of him. The wheeze is fading. Or maybe his consciousness was. Either way he’s dying.

And he’s giving up.

He’s not even trying.

The pressure suddenly disappears, the feel of tight and bruising fingers have gone.

He’s choking on air.

The abruptness of the oxygen he’s sucking down rushes to his head leaving him dizzy. Spittle and nausea mix with it and threaten to take his breath away again. His face feels hot with each hacking and choked breath.

There’s hands back on him and he screams a little. It only results in more violent coughing. He gags again and tries to shy away from probing hands.

There’s blood rushing around his head. For all he knew it was pooling out of his ears. Everything is muffled but too loud at the same time. There’s shouting and crashing and everything reverberates dizzyingly in his ears.

“- ILES,” sound breaks through the distorted muffle. There’s a panicked wheeze whining up between him and the voice and his body arches again, both with an uncontrollable cough and a need to find leverage, hands reflexively flying up to struggle against his assailant. His hands are easily pulled away, gathered in bigger ones, gentler than he was expecting. They’re released before he feels them move to either side of his face, keeping his wildly shaking head still. “Stiles, take it easy. Focus on me. Just breathe.”

Stiles head is being kept still. There’s a familiar face staring down at him. The greyness is fading.

“Derek?” he manages to wheeze out.

“Just breathe for me,” Derek instructs him. Stiles wants to nod but he can’t with Derek keeping him in place. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s over.”

There’s growling from somewhere behind.

“What-?” Stiles tries to push himself up. “Where’s…?”

“Stop. Don’t move,” Derek tells him again, not once moving his hands from where they’re placed on either side of Stiles face. He looks away from Stiles in the direction of the growling. “Scott!” he growls, eyes flashing red. “Don’t kill him. Stick him in the holding area.”

“But…” he hears Scott protest and then growl again.

Stiles has a sudden and overwhelming need to see his dad. He abruptly, and embarrassedly, bursts into ugly tears.

“I need to see my dad,” he manages to choke out.

“Oh,” Derek says clearly startled and horrified at the waterworks. “Hey, you’re okay. Your dad’s fine. I can hear his heartbeat. Everyone’s okay.”

“Not everyone,” Stiles chokes again and pushes at Derek. “Let me up.”

“You gotta stay still, Stiles…” Derek says, not removing his hands. “You were choked. You might have a neck injury.”

“Don’t care,” Stiles wheezes as he struggles, body arching again, arms coming up to flail at him. He manages a nicely done strike across the nose which leaves Derek blinking in surprise. “Let me up.”

“No,” Derek says.

“Let go of me,” It comes out as a shriek, cracking and croaking with the pressure. He bucks wildly under Derek’s hulking frame. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

He hears his dad again, obviously thinking Stiles was still under attack, his tone promising nothing less than fire and brimstone.

“Derek,” he hears Scott say worriedly. “He’s not going to stop. He’s only going to hurt himself more.”

“Okay, okay…” Derek relents with reluctance. “Take it slow. And if you feel any fucking pain you tell me right away. Got it.”

“Yes,” Stiles tells him, swatting him impatiently. “Get out of my way or me help up already.”

Stiles lets Derek help pull him up. They take it in stages. First to his butt where Derek insists on running his hand down his neck and spine. His whole body fucking aches but nothing hurts any worse at moving, so he gives Derek a curt “No,” when Derek asks. Next he’s slowly raised until he’s completely upright. The room spins and whites out for a second and Derek flashes a concerned look, stepping closer into his space. “I’m fine,” he tells them.

He knows he’s not. His voice sounds wrecked, blood is falling into his eye from the gash on his forehead, his palm is sliced open, mixing his own blood with Tara’s. He can only imagine what his throat looks like.

He’s covered in blood.

He doesn’t resists the tight hold Derek keeps on his elbow as he tries not to stumble his way to the next room. By the time they get there, Scott already has the unconscious Greenberg into a holding cell and his dad is firing questions.

Scott nods at them when they get to the doorway and his dad turns away, eyes widening in shock when he sees him.

“Oh god,” his dad croaks at him, eyes filling with anger and despair. “What did he do you, baby?”

He can only recall his dad calling him that once before. The night his mom died. When his dad had finally turned up at the hospital, gathering Stiles numb body into his own, murmuring soft apologies into his hair. _“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”_

“It’s all my fault,” Stiles says, voice cracking again, more tears falling. Stiles pulls his arm out of Derek’s grasp and stumbles forward, falling to the floor and burying his face into his dad’s knees. “She’s dead because of me.”

“Who?” his dad asks him, hand going straight into his hair and carding through it and then says to someone else. “Get these goddamn handcuffs off me.”

It takes longer than necessary because neither Derek nor Scott can just break the cuffs from the wall without raising suspicion and Scott lets his dad direct him to where a set of keys were.

Stiles uses the time to cry into his dad’s pant legs.

“Tara,” Stiles sobs out, clutching the material of the pants in his hands. “I lied to him. I told him she didn’t mean anything to me,” he sucks in a breath, the betrayal scorching his throat. “I thought I was saving her. I thought he wouldn’t hurt her. But he did it anyway.”

“It’s not your fault,” his dad tells him, only able to continue to card his hair, hand occasionally drifting down the back of his neck to rub his back, hand never once breaking contact.

“She used to help me with math,” Stiles says, breath hitching on a sob, being lulled by his dad’s ministrations. “She used to let me sit with her while I was waiting for you to finish. I’ve been to her house.”

Scott’s back with the key and an apology for the intrusion. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him.

“Shh,” his dad says, stroking the side of his face, catching the tears with his thumb.

“Forgive me,” Stiles pleads. His dad slides down off the bench he’s been forced to sit on and joins Stiles on the floor. He pulls him into his chest.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he hears his dad say. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

 

* * *

 

_tbc_


End file.
